


Branches and Blossoms

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Eyeshield 21
Genre: Alternate Universe - Flower Shop & Tattoo Parlor, American Football, Developing Relationship, First Dates, Flirting, Flowers, Fluff, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-12
Updated: 2016-08-08
Packaged: 2018-07-14 20:55:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7189844
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sakuraba is nervous before he comes in the front door of the tattoo parlor." Sakuraba goes to get a new tattoo and gets himself a lot more than he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Draft

Sakuraba is nervous before he comes in the front door of the tattoo parlor.

It’s silly to be stressed. He should know better by now, should have long ago come to terms with the childish self-consciousness along his spine that makes him feel so painfully out of place amid the array of jewelry and photographs of tattooed skin that line the walls of the shop; he’s an adult, after all, and he knows what he wants, he shouldn’t balk just at the surroundings of the establishment itself. But he does anyway, just a little, just enough that his shoulders are tense with nerves as he pulls the front door open, and then he sees the man lounging behind the counter and his nerves double in the span of a heartbeat. He’s clearly an employee of the shop, or at least a frequent customer; his ears are lined with the weight of earrings, his wrists and hands circled with bands of ink like bracelets and rings printed stark against pale skin. There’s a loop of metal through his lip, another by his eyebrow, and if his hair is pale as Sakuraba’s the bleached-out yellow of the other’s spiky locks was never a natural occurrence. He’s slouched over the front desk, flipping through a magazine that seems to hold his attention as Sakuraba enters; then he blows a bubble in the gum that he’s chewing, the blue color of it as startling as his appearance, and cracks it to a _pop_ that makes Sakuraba jump before he says, “You lost, pretty boy?” without looking up from the magazine.

“What?” Sakuraba asks, too taken aback by the other’s appearance and offhand tone to make any sense out of his question.

Another bubble, this time punctuated by the magazine dropping to the counter as the other looks up to fix his stare on Sakuraba instead of the pages in front of him. “I asked if you were _lost_ ,” he repeats, straightening from behind the counter and crossing his arms over his chest. “We don’t usually get wannabe models wandering in here off the street. You know fucking with this kind of thing will throw a crimp in your career?”

Sakuraba blinks. “I’m not a model,” he says.

“Well that’s a good start,” the other drawls, grinning until Sakuraba’s not sure if his statement is sincerity or sarcasm. “You going through a rebellious phase or something, then?”

“Hey,” comes a voice from around the corner, low and rumbling from some unseen source. “Stop terrorizing the customers, Hiruma.”

“Tell fat-ass to hurry up with his lunch break,” the first -- Hiruma, apparently -- calls back without turning around. “Or get out here and take over yourself.”

“Damn,” the voice says again, this time followed by the person owning it, a man somewhat taller and broader than the first but overall far less intimidating in appearance, even with the dark of his hair falling into a mohawk over his features. He has far less jewelry than the blond; the only tattoo Sakuraba can see is a pattern around his wrist to match the one the other has. “I’ll take over, you can take your afternoon break.” He turns back out to meet Sakuraba’s gaze. “Sorry,” he says, his voice low and rough like smoke but the more soothing for it. “What can we help you with today?”

“Ah,” Sakuraba says, blinking hard as he tries to reorient himself in the headspace for his original request. It takes a moment and a shake of his head, but the newcomer just waits patiently, his expression as wholly unruffled as if Sakuraba’s confusion is perfectly normal. “I, uh. Wanted to get a tattoo.”

“Rebellion,” Hiruma crows from the wall behind the other man’s shoulder. “I knew it.”

“No problem,” the second man says. “Let me check and see if our artist is free.”

“He is,” Hiruma says as the other moves away from the counter and towards one of the doors in the hallway behind it. “He’s been bored all day and you know it.” The other man ignores him, knocking against the door before pushing it open and having a brief conversation too low for Sakuraba to hear. He’s only there for a moment; then he turns back to the main counter, crossing the distance and leaving the door open behind him.

“Takami’s available,” he says, gesturing over his shoulder at the open door. “Go on in, he should be able to get you sorted out.” He looks back at Hiruma still slouching against the wall. “Aren’t you going to take your break?”

“I am,” Hiruma informs him without moving at all. “I’m taking it out here. You got a problem with that, old man?” He’s still grinning, his smile as wide and vicious as a threat given form at his lips, but he’s not looking at Sakuraba anymore, and the open door behind the counter looks like a sanctuary, at least temporarily. Sakuraba nods thanks to the second man, although it goes unseen for the inaudible conversation he’s having with Hiruma, and steps around the edge of the counter to make his way along the narrow hall to the back room.

He’s not sure what to expect. After the incongruous pair at the front he thinks he’s ready for a similar caricature of a person, ready to make polite excuses and go if the tattoo artist gives off anything like Hiruma’s aggression. But when he pushes the door open he’s met with the dark of a bowed head and the forward tilt of broad shoulders, and when the man says “One moment please,” his voice is so calm Sakuraba’s tension eases just at the sound of the words. He’s leaning over a sheet of paper in front of him, sketching out a design with fingers making an elegant line against the pencil in his hand, but Sakuraba’s eyes are drawn first to the far more colorful details of the tattoos spanning his arms from wrist to elbow. It looks like waves of color spilling over his skin, like the ebb of the ocean given form across the curve of his forearms, but in saturated colors of blue and green and even a little red, when Sakuraba looks for it. The dark of the artist’s hair is cut short on the sides, close-cropped against his scalp up past the frames of the dark glasses he’s wearing, but it’s been left longer across the top to be swept back over the top of his head into waves reminiscent of the gentle curves of color across his forearms. He has none of the piercings Hiruma at the front showed off, but the collar of his shirt is sliding just wide enough for Sakuraba to catch the suggestion of ink against the other’s shoulder, the pattern of some design too shadowed to be pieced together shifting along with the movement of his hands.

“My apologies,” the other says, bracing his fingers against the paper under his hands and sliding it sideways as he sets the pencil down. “I just wanted to finish that design before I lost the idea of it.” He lifts his chin, looking up at Sakuraba from behind the shine of his glasses, and Sakuraba can see his dark eyes go momentarily wider, can see the polite smile at the other’s mouth fall slack and surprised at seeing him.

“Oh,” he says, sounding exactly as shocked as he looks. “It’s you.”

Sakuraba blinks, taken aback by this utterly unexpected statement. “Sorry?”

“Oh,” the artist says again, and then he shakes his head and blinks himself out of surprise. “I’m so sorry.” He pushes himself upright on the other side of the desk, bracing one hand against the surface as he extends the other across the distance to Sakuraba. “I’m Takami Ichiro.”

“Sakuraba Haruto.” Takami’s fingers close gently around Sakuraba’s; his hand is warm enough that Sakuraba’s skin is prickling with heat even after Takami lets his hold go. “Have we met before?”

“No,” Takami says, waving a hand to push aside the idea with an apologetic smile. “No, not at all. I’ve just seen you taking your lunch out front a few times before. You work at the florist’s down the block, don’t you?”

“Ah.” Sakuraba can feel himself flushing, self-consciousness at being first noticed and then remembered making itself clear across his face. “Yeah. I didn’t realize I was such an inconvenience.”

“Oh no,” Takami says, too fast and too forcefully. “Not at all. I just remember seeing you, that’s all.” He looks away, clears his throat with some effort; when he moves again it’s to gesture to the chair on the other side of the desk. “Have a seat, we can talk about your tattoo.”

“Right,” Sakuraba says, and reaches to draw the chair back so he can sit. Takami settles on the other side of the desk, framing the loose papers along one side between his hands to shuffle them into alignment with each other and set them far to the side and out of the way. By the time he looks back up his expression is calm again, professional and cool enough that it dissolves the last trace of Sakuraba’s blush into calm instead.

“Tell me what you had in mind,” Takami prompts. “Where were you thinking of getting it?”

Sakuraba takes a breath, lets it out slowly before he lifts a hand to gesture over his shoulder. “I want it across my shoulders, over the top part of my back and then continuing down to fade out over my shoulderblades.”

Takami’s eyebrows go up. “That’s fairly involved for your first tattoo.”

“It’s not my first,” Sakuraba says, and reaches up without thinking to catch his fingers under the collar of his t-shirt. The fabric is soft, the neckline loose; it tugs to the side easily under the pull of his hand to bare his collarbone and the very top of the number inked dark over his right shoulder. Takami’s gaze drops, following the line of Sakuraba’s collar instead of lingering at his face, and Sakuraba grins self-deprecatingly. “It’ll be my third, actually.”

“Ah,” Takami says, but he’s staring at Sakuraba’s shoulder as intensely as if there’s more to see than just the black of ink under pale skin. Sakuraba can see his cheeks going faintly darker, like they’re collecting heat from the illumination of the light overhead, and he suddenly becomes aware of the cool of the air against his bare skin, as if the weight of Takami’s stare is enough to make his skin prickle into self-consciousness all on its own. He lets his collar go, shrugs to settle his shirt back over his shoulders, and by the time Takami looks back up Sakuraba is as red as the other, embarrassment at his unthinking motion catching up to him after the fact.

“I’ve been thinking about it a while,” he says, ducking his head to talk to the desk rather than meeting the dark of Takami’s gaze. “I won’t change my mind, if you’re worried about that.”

“No,” Takami says, sounding a little bit stunned and a little bit apologetic. “I just didn’t think -- you didn’t look like the type.” When Sakuraba looks up Takami colors again, his cheeks going darker still as if Sakuraba has actually put voice to some protest of this.

“Not that that’s a bad thing,” he says. “It’s nice to know that you--” and this time he’s the one to duck his head, cutting off whatever he was going to say into a half-cough like he’s clearing his throat. “Never mind,” he says, and reaches out to slide a sheet of paper towards himself. “What kind of a design were you thinking of?”

“Cherry blossoms,” Sakuraba says, still watching the top of Takami’s bowed head as if the dark of the other’s hair will give him some kind of insight into that half-finished sentence. “For my family name.”

“Sakura,” Takami says, his mouth quirking into a smile as he reaches for his pencil. “Of course.”

“Just the flowers,” Sakuraba says, as Takami starts to sketch out the shadow of a design onto the page in front of him. “More at the top, then fading out as they move down.”

“Like they’re falling from the tree,” Takami says, and then looks up to make the statement into a question.

Sakuraba smiles. “Exactly, yeah.”

Takami looks back down at the page, starts sketching in a curved line over the top of the smaller outlines of petals he’s shaped already. “You want it over your shoulders, from the top edge down to around the base of your shoulderblades? All the way across your back?”

“Yeah.” Sakuraba leans in against the desk to watch Takami form the shape of a sketched-in body under the design he’s building on the page. “Are you making a draft already?”

“The first idea, at least,” Takami says, his pencil curving smoothly across the page. “I can draw up a few designs and give you a call once they’re ready for you to come in and review.” His pencil stalls, his head lifts, and for a moment he and Sakuraba are staring at each other from over the width of the table. Takami’s mouth is soft, his eyes are dark; Sakuraba can see his forehead crease, can see his mouth open as if to speak. His pencil stills, the shape on the page between them forgotten for a moment, and Sakuraba can feel his skin flush as if with preemptive excitement for something he can’t explain.

“Actually.” Takami leans back in his chair, carefully sets his pencil down alongside the half-done drawing. He braces his fingers against it to steady it before lifting his hand and pushing his glasses up farther along the bridge of his nose.

“I apologize,” he says, his voice so level Sakuraba almost doesn’t see the tremor in his fingers or the shake in his wrist as he brings his hand down to press against his other, to interlock his fingers to stillness against the table. “I know you just came here to talk about a tattoo design, and I’m afraid this is incredibly unprofessional of me. Please excuse me, I promise you I don’t make a habit of this.” He’s talking to his hands, framing the words with a slow pace that make them seem more strained than they would if he were stumbling over them. “I’ve been noticing you for several months, and I’ve actually been meaning to ask you a question for some time.”

“Oh,” Sakuraba says, his heart racing with sheer confusion. “Okay, sure.”

Takami lifts his head. His eyes are still dark behind his glasses, still shadowed into that same focus he turned on Sakuraba initially; but his mouth is tense, now, his lips catching and turning up at the corner into amusement that comes out as strain under his voice when he speaks.

“Do you want to go get lunch with me sometime?”


	2. Nerves

Takami is nervous.

He’s been nervous all day, has been carrying a low-level tremor through his whole body that has only gotten more pronounced as the hours of morning ticked past to bring him closer to lunch. He has an appointment first thing in the morning, spends nearly an hour discussing design ideas with a recurring customer, and that helps a little; at least it distracts him from the unusual weight of the button-up shirt he’s wearing and the vivid green of the sleeves rolled up past his elbows. It’s a nice shirt, he knows, it suits him and looks good enough that even Hiruma didn’t comment on it when he came in this morning, just eyed it with a raised eyebrow and a grin that said he knew what it was for even if Takami didn’t say anything about it. But it’s still strange, the fabric softer than the polos or t-shirts he usually wears and clinging oddly to his shoulders, and with the last of the morning hours slipping away Takami finds it’s all he can think about for the nervous thrum in the back of his head distracting him from any more useful pursuits. He wastes almost an hour back in his studio staring unseeing at drawings he doesn’t touch, and he’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t hear Musashi coming, that he jumps at the rap of the other’s knuckles against the doorway.

“Takami,” Musashi says as Takami startles himself into wide-eyed attention at the other man leaning against the edge of the door. “You can take your lunch break now.”

“Ah,” Takami says, and suddenly his whole body is tense on panic, the low-level adrenaline of the morning knotting itself into abrupt strain just at the suggestion of Musashi’s words. “Thanks. I will.” He looks back down at the table, collects the drawings spread across the desk into a neat stack with hands that threaten to shake in spite of his effort to hold them steady, and then there’s nothing left to do but push back from his desk and head down the hall to the front of the store.

“Good afternoon, Takami!” Kurita says as he turns around from the front desk. His eyes go wider at the sight of the other’s clothing; Takami can feel himself blush warm across his cheeks at the consideration. “Wow, you look really nice!”

“He’s got a hot date,” Hiruma drawls from the doorway to the back room. He’s slouching against the frame, his shirt caught at the edge of his dark jeans to leave a gap of an inch, just enough for the overhead light to catch against the piercing laid in against the sharp line of his hipbone. “He’s been nervous about it all day like the big gay he is.”

“Shut up Hiruma,” Musashi says as he comes back down the hallway behind Takami. “You’ve got no room to talk.”

“I’m just being honest,” Hiruma informs him. “He’s going on a date with another guy. That’s pretty unequivocally homosexual.” He flashes all his teeth at Takami, tilting his head to angle hard against the doorframe he’s leaning against. “The fact that he’s using work as a place to pick up guys is more interesting anyway. Don’t you care about the personal use your employees make of the workplace?”

“If I did I’d have to throw you out on a daily basis,” Musashi says, coming over to set a hand at Hiruma’s shoulder and push him into the back room bodily. Hiruma goes without protest, his grin flashing like lightning, and Musashi looks back over his shoulder to fix Takami with the steady calm that he always carries behind his eyes. “Have a good time.”

“Good luck!” Kurita offers. “I’m sure he’ll like you!”

“Go get ‘im, big boy,” Hiruma teases, and Takami rolls his eyes and leaves before his self-conscious blush can get any worse.

The walk to the flowershop is short. It’s only a few buildings down; Takami isn’t sure if he’s grateful for the proximity or not. On the one hand he could do with a little more of a walk than the few steps it takes to make it to the displays of fresh-cut flowers and elegant bouquets set in the plate glass windows of the shop; on the other hand if it were any farther away he wouldn’t have spent the last several months watching the blond assistant from the shop eat his lunch under the shade of the trees in front of the tattoo parlor, and he very much doubts he would have found it in him to impulsively ask for a date like he did when Sakuraba showed up in the doorway to his studio like he had fallen directly into Takami’s lap. It had seemed like a dream, like an impossibility, and Takami is sure it was that as much as uncharacteristic directness that pulled the blurt of an invitation from his lips. He had almost regretted it, in the first stunned seconds of Sakuraba staring at him afterwards; but then Sakuraba had blushed all over his face, and smiled with sweet embarrassment, and said “Sure, why not?” to sweep away the last of Takami’s belief in his current existence as reality. It’s been days since then, a pair of them marked more by Takami’s dazed happiness than anything else; and now he’s reaching for the handle of the door to the flowershop, and pulling it open, and he still hasn’t woken up from what he thinks has to be a dream.

Takami is braced to see Sakuraba immediately. He’s been thinking about it all day, about the way Sakuraba will look up from the other side of the counter, about the way his polite professionalism will flicker into shy excitement, maybe, maybe even the quirk of a smile at the corner of his mouth. But the man standing on the far side of the counter isn’t Sakuraba; he’s a little shorter, and a little skinnier, and wearing a dark suit that makes him look more like he’s part of some European mafia than a florist. He gives Takami an extended look that runs from the top of his head all the way down to the toes of his sneakers, like he’s cataloging every detail about him in a single glance, before he says, “What can I help you with?” in a perfectly polite tone underlaid with vague, unformed menace.

“I’m here to meet Sakuraba Haruto,” Takami says, trying to hold the other man’s gaze instead of looking past him in an attempt to summon Sakuraba to the front by sheer force of will. “Does he work here?”

“Sakuraba,” the other man says, still considering Takami like he’s fitting him for a suit. He has ornate earrings in both ears and a stripe of white running through the front of his hair; Takami can’t tell if the white is deliberately bleached to that shade or a natural discoloration left for style. “He’ll be out in a few minutes, I’d say.”

“Oh good,” Takami says, and he’s just about to offer to wait outside when there’s a “Takami!” and he looks up to see Sakuraba rushing out from around the corner. He’s out of breath and visibly flustered; his hair is sticking up at the front, and the half-formed attempt he makes to smooth it down doesn’t seem to have much of an effect as he comes forward.

“Sorry I’m late,” he says as he maneuvers around the edge of the counter and through the waist-high swinging door to the front. His cheeks are flushed, the back of his neck damp like he’s been splashing water on it; he’s wearing a pale blue shirt with short sleeves that cling to his arms and a collar open enough that Takami can see the dip between his collarbones, can maybe imagine the faint shadow of the tattoo he remembers glimpsing against the gold of Sakuraba’s skin when he drew his shirt down during their last conversation.

“It’s fine,” Takami says automatically, and draws his eyes up to Sakuraba’s face with a monumental effort of will. “I only just got here, it’s no problem.”

“Oh good,” Sakuraba says, and then he smiles and Takami can feel his heart lurch in his chest like gravity has swept itself out from under his feet, like the curve of Sakuraba’s mouth is enough to knock every thought in his head clear of anything but shocked appreciation. Sakuraba looks over to the man standing behind the counter while Takami is still staring, his smile fading a little as his forehead creases into concern. “I’ll be back in time for my afternoon shift.”

“Take your time,” the other man says. He’s watching them both, now, giving Sakuraba the same steady contemplation he turned on Takami; there’s a quirk of a smile at the corner of his lips when Takami looks over at him, amusement curling his mouth into the threat of a laugh Takami isn’t sure is intended to be shared. “Work comes second. Love is the most important thing, after all.”

“Right,” Sakuraba says, but he’s going crimson, self-consciousness flushing hot all across his face. “Let’s go, Takami.” He makes for the door directly, without looking back at the man Takami assumes to be his boss, and is so far clear of the door by the time Takami trails him out of the shop that he pauses to hold it open for the other.

“Thanks,” Takami says, stepping clear of the shop so Sakuraba can let the weight of the door swing shut. He hesitates for a moment, his heart pounding the worse now that they’re outside the shop and technically alone, and then he tries a smile, sliding his hands into his pockets to stifle the urge to run a hand nervously through his hair. “So. Lunch.” He can feel adrenaline prickling all along his spine; when he smiles it catches on his stress to come out lopsided against his lips. “Do you have a favorite place I can take you to?”

“What?” Sakuraba asks. He lifts a hand, his fingers catching and rumpling the short-cut gold to a tangle across the top of his head. “Ah. No, not really, we can go wherever you like.”

“Okay,” Takami says, and tips his head to indicate movement down the sidewalk before he turns. Sakuraba lets his hand fall as he jogs to fall into step alongside Takami; there’s a gap between them, too much to comfortably reach over even if Takami didn’t have his hands in his pockets, but it’s not as wide as he had feared, and Sakuraba’s mouth is clinging to a smile even if his cheeks are still pink with self-consciousness. Takami looks at him sideways behind the frames of his glasses for a moment, then clears his throat and brings his attention forward as Sakuraba glances at him. “Was that your boss?”

“Marco?” Sakuraba asks. “Yeah, basically. The store’s not actually his but he’s the manager and I never see the owner herself. He acts like he owns it anyway, so I guess it doesn’t make much of a difference.” Takami looks at him sideways again; for a moment their eyes meet, hold for a heartbeat, and then Sakuraba is looking away again to smile down at the sidewalk instead of holding Takami’s gaze. “What about you? Is that blond guy the owner or something?”

Takami laughs. “No, though Musashi lets him act like it whenever he feels like terrorizing new customers. I heard he was being a jerk to you when you came in, sorry about that. Kurita’s much nicer, usually Hiruma isn’t allowed out at the front.”

Sakuraba’s laugh is bright in his throat; Takami can feel the warmth of the sound purr straight down his spine to thrum happiness under his skin. “You make him sound like a wild animal or something.”

“Ha!” Takami tips his head back, frees a hand to urge his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “He’d probably take it as a compliment, knowing Hiruma.” He pauses, unsure of his next words; but Sakuraba is looking at him again, and he’s still smiling, and Takami can feel honesty thrumming at the back of his tongue as much as it did in the studio, when he opened his mouth and blurted a question before he had time to think through the actual details of the request. He could hold it back this time if he tried, could close his mouth and look away and keep his own counsel; but Sakuraba is so much brighter up close than he looked from a distance, and Takami is so grateful, and what he ends up doing is saying “Thank you,” even managing to hold Sakuraba’s gaze as he does so. “For saying yes. I really appreciate you giving me a chance.”

Sakuraba blinks, his eyes going wide and startled. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.” He looks away, his cheeks darkening as if Takami’s consideration is too much sunlight for the fair of his skin to bear; but his smile is going wider, and when he looks back up it’s through his lashes, the shadow of them darkening his gaze to something heavier and more flirtatious than he probably intends. “Did you really know who I was?”

Takami doesn’t mean to laugh. It’s an involuntary reaction, a spill of sound carried more on surprise than amusement. “God,” he says, and he can feel himself blushing but he’s smiling too, he thinks it might be impossible to be around Sakuraba and not be smiling. “Yes, of course I did. I’ve been seeing you eat lunch out in front of our store every week for months and meaning to ask you out whenever I found the nerve to do it.” He should look away, he knows, his face is burning with heat, but Sakuraba is still watching him and Takami doesn’t think he has it in him to pull his focus away from the soft dark of Sakuraba’s gaze on him. “I’m just glad I know your name, now.”

Sakuraba smiles, and huffs a laugh, and then he does finally look away but he’s blushing now, too, his cheeks coloring to red as Takami watches, and that’s as distracting as his gaze was. “I didn’t know,” he says, aiming the words somewhere at the sidewalk in front of him, and then, with his smile going wider: “I’m glad you asked,” so quietly Takami can only hear it because of how near they are walking.

They haven’t even arrived at the restaurant yet, but Takami already feels like this is going to be the best first date he’s ever been on.


	3. Unsaid

Takami loves his work.

Sakuraba figures this out the very first day, while he is working through the best sandwich he’s ever had and half-distracted by the soft weight of Takami’s voice at the other side of the table. All it took was one off-hand question about how he got his job and Takami is off, tipping back in his chair and smiling like it’s over some secret while he lays out the story of going to get his first tattoo when he graduated high school and the way the art on the walls caught and held his attention. It’s not that the story in and of itself is that interesting; but there’s an obvious affection in the way Takami talks about his work, a soft curve to his mouth that holds Sakuraba’s attention as much as the words, and when he finally sighs and shakes his head and asks Sakuraba about his job Sakuraba is left stumbling for words to frame the relative mundanity of his life. He wants to apologize for his far less interesting story, but it’s Takami who beats him to it, laughing off the subject as an unimportant one and leaning in over the table to ask what it is that Sakuraba likes to do outside of work. The hour break Sakuraba has for lunch evaporates to the conversation after that, until he’s grateful to Marco’s assurance that he can return late that lets them linger over their meal for nearly two hours instead of the one Sakuraba expected. It was Sakuraba who asked the obvious follow-up, as they turned onto the block where the tattoo parlor and flower shop are located, and Takami who smiled acceptance of his invitation to meet for drinks the next night. His eyes are very dark, his smile very soft; Sakuraba’s heart is still pounding with hyperawareness of both those facts when he gets back into the shop, his head still spinning with reliving the very recent past of Takami leaning in over the table and smiling like Sakuraba is the most important thing in the world. Marco banishes him to the back room, telling him he can’t be trusted not to fall over his own feet with how lovestruck he looks, and Sakuraba blushes and goes to occupy himself with the flowers in the cool of the refrigerator while all his skin glows with warmth even the chilled air can’t strip away.

Takami is right on time the next night, already waiting in front of the bar Sakuraba suggested when the other turns the corner onto the street. He’s dressed a little more formally than Sakuraba has seen before; his jeans are darker, his shirt sleeves rolled down and covered with a jacket to disguise the ink patterns sweeping up his forearms. But his smile is the same, curling into dark heat in his eyes when he sees Sakuraba coming, and he starts conversation as fluidly as he did before, asking Sakuraba about the mundanities of his day and listening with apparent interest as they follow the host to a dim-lit booth in the corner of the restaurant. It feels intimate, far more so than the open-air lunch they had the day before; but Sakuraba only thinks about it for a moment before Takami says, “Actually, I was hoping you wouldn’t mind talking about your tattoo a little,” and slides a handful of sketched-out designs from the inside pocket of his jacket.

The designs are beautiful. Even in black-and-white and sketched into rough outlines on the page Sakuraba is stalled to silence by each of them, struck as much by the precision of Takami’s drawings as by the shapes themselves. Takami is talking, explaining the focus he had for each of them as Sakuraba draws them closer to himself, but Sakuraba is barely listening, his attention more held by the curves on the page and the low purr of Takami’s voice than by the actual details of the other’s words.

“This one might be more detail than what you’re looking for,” Takami says now, reaching out to brace his fingers against the sketch at the far left, which shows a cascade of cherry blossoms from the full-sized tree sketched across the page. “I was really just looking for a place to start. But this one seemed like it might be closer --” touching the one in the middle, that shows a pair of branches almost forming the outline of wings from which the flowers themselves are toppling, and then reaching for the last and the soft-edged impression of petals it grants, “-- or maybe this, if you wanted to be a little more abstract about it.”

“Wow,” Sakuraba breathes, touching the very edges of the sheets of paper and feeling vaguely like he’s going to shatter something if he breathes too hard. “These are amazing.”

“Ah.” Takami coughs and shifts on the other side of the booth; when Sakuraba looks up he’s pushing a hand through his hair, the weight of his fingers sweeping the wave of the locks into a different pattern. “Thank you. They really are just sketches. It’s a little easier to talk about designs when you have some different options in front of you.” He reaches to touch the edge of the sheet in the middle, the one Sakuraba still has his fingers skimming; he doesn’t move the page at all, but Sakuraba imagines he can feel the tension in the paper under his fingers, like it’s going electric with the weight of their shared touch. “Which do you like best?”

“God,” Sakuraba breathes, and looks at the sheets again. They’re all beautiful -- the one on the left especially so, with the curving branches of the trees reaching up to support the weight of the blossoms like a cloud. But: “This one,” he says, letting the middle sheet go so he can reach and push forward the one on the far right, the one that is more an impression of flowers than the actual details of the petals.

He’s half-expecting Takami to raise an eyebrow, or maybe to cough a laugh; but he does neither, just nods as if he expected this and draws the sheet a little away from the others. “What do you like about this one more than the others?”

“Oh.” Sakuraba looks down again, considers the two designs on the left and the one pulled closer to Takami’s side of the table. He frowns at the patterns, reaches out to touch his fingers to the shading of the petals on the one he pointed out. “It’s just the flowers, so it’s harder to tell what it’s supposed to be. I think I like it better without the branches of the tree.”

“Really,” Takami says. There’s a strange tone to his voice, but when Sakuraba looks up Takami is looking down at the sketches instead with the faint suggestion of a smile tugging at the very corner of his mouth. “More abstract, then.” He reaches to collect the sheets back into a stack and sets them aside at the edge of the table just as one of the waiters approaches with a pair of drinks. “I’ll try some other designs tonight. I can bring them by the flowershop tomorrow, if you’ll be there.”

“Sure,” Sakuraba says, but he has to go on: “It’s not a rush, you know. You don’t have to spend your nights working on this or anything.”

Takami waves a hand to brush aside his protest. “I’m enjoying it. This is the best part of the process. I like working on the designs.” He reaches for his drink and takes a sip as his attention comes back to Sakuraba’s face. “Do you have a particular style for your other tattoos? You said you had two others, right?”

“Yeah,” Sakuraba says, but he’s shaking his head in negation of the question even as he agrees to the basic premise. “They’re all going to be different, though.” He lifts a hand to gesture to the ink across his shoulder currently hidden by the fabric of his shirt. “This one’s really clean, just the number itself. And there’s another one on my hip that’s more elaborate, but it’s a lot more intricate than I want this one to be.”

“Oh?” Takami asks. His gaze is tracking Sakuraba’s fingertips, dragging across the other’s shoulder for a moment before dipping down to track the unconscious gesture Sakuraba makes towards the interwoven pattern laid across his hip. Sakuraba can feel himself flush with heat at that dip of Takami’s eyes, at the other’s gaze sliding over him with all the heat of a touch behind it; and then Takami blinks, and looks back up, and his mouth curves in almost-an-apology. “Would you mind showing it to me? The one on your shoulder, I mean.”

“Ah,” Sakuraba says, and he wouldn’t be embarrassed by the request except for that clarification Takami added to the end, the specificity that sends his imagination sliding down the other route, offering the sudden idea of his skin laid bare for Takami’s gaze, the dark of the ink across his hip contrasting with the hot flush of his body under the intensity in the other’s eyes. He clears his throat, drops his gaze to the table, and says “Sure,” certain he’s blushing visibly but not able to figure out how to stop it. He reaches for his shirt instead, unfastening the top handful of buttons so he can shrug his shoulder free of the fabric and reach to tug the collar of his undershirt wide to bare the tattoo across his shoulder.

“It’s my old uniform number,” he explains, his voice skipping high on self-consciousness as Takami’s gaze lingers on the _18_ printed in clean numbers across his shoulder. He’s leaning in closer over the table, his shoulders tipping nearer as he considers the ink; Sakuraba can smell the faint suggestion of spice clinging to his hair, or maybe to his skin, the hint of lavender shampoo or some cologne too mild for him to clearly identify. His heart is pounding faster, his skin flushing warm under Takami’s consideration; Sakuraba stares at the dark waves of Takami’s hair, at the dip of his lashes as he blinks, and swallows and struggles through another half-formed explanation. “From football. High school.”

Takami’s gaze jumps up to catch Sakuraba’s. His eyes are almost black in the dim lighting, but when he blinks illumination catches the saturated brown under the shadows, brings the suggestion of gold up from the dark. “You played football?”

“Yeah.” Sakuraba lets his shirt fall forward over his shoulder once again; Takami leans back by an inch, but he’s still tipped forward over the table, still gazing at Sakuraba like he’s trying to read his whole life story from the lines of his face. “I was a receiver.” He shrugs, flashes a self-deprecating smile as he pulls his shirt back up over his shoulder. “I was never very good though.”

“You’re tall,” Takami observes. “That’s useful all by itself.”

“Yeah,” Sakuraba allows. “That’s about all I had going for me, though.” He misses a button on his shirt, has to undo a pair of them and restart from the bottom over again; he’s flushing to pink, he can feel his cheeks burning with self-consciousness, but Takami doesn’t say anything, just keeps watching him with that faint smile clinging to his lips. “I guess it’s kind of silly to get a tattoo for a sport I wasn’t even very good at.”

Takami’s lashes flutter, his mouth quirks. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, and reaches out to draw his drink towards him. “I understand the feeling.”

Sakuraba watches Takami bring his glass to his mouth, tracks the press of the other’s lips against the edge of the cup. Takami’s sleeve slides back just enough to suggest a swirl of color against the angle of his wrist. “You do?”

“Mm.” Takami swallows a mouthful of liquid and sets the glass back down carefully. When he looks up at Sakuraba his mouth is tugging wider, the tension at his lips going to the threat of a laugh now. “I played football in high school too.”

Sakuraba’s eyebrows go up. “You did?”

“Yeah.” Takami flashes a smile at him before he looks sideways and away, out at the dark of the rest of the room. “I’ll tell you the story someday.”

There’s a weight under his voice, the suggestion of sadness on the back of his tongue that says this is a conversation best left for another time. But even with the shadow on Takami’s voice Sakuraba can feel warmth purr down his spine, can feel his heart beating faster on excitement at the implication under the other’s words.

The promise of future conversations is more reassuring than he expected it to be.


	4. Level

“Okay,” Sakuraba announces as he takes the lead around a corner on their way back from the bar. “It’s your turn.”

Takami glances at him sideways. Sakuraba is watching the pace of his feet against the sidewalk rather than looking over at him, but there’s an easy smile on his lips, happiness made simple and unselfconscious by the last few hours of comfortable conversation and the pair of drinks they’ve both downed. Takami feels warm and hazy himself, his thoughts drifting like clouds through his mind instead of following the more rigid tracks he usually lays for them; it’s a pleasant feeling, when he has Sakuraba smiling next to him like he is, to let the conversation float along the suggestion of the other’s words instead of taking the lead himself.

“Okay,” he agrees easily, without a shred of hesitation in his voice or thoughts. “My turn for what?”

“You have to tell me about your tattoos,” Sakuraba announces. He has his hands in his pockets, his shoulders tipped back into a comfortable angle as he walks; the position slows his pace, turning their forward movement into more of a meander than something more purposeful. Takami usually moves faster, tucks his chin down and watches the sidewalk in front of him as he progresses to where he’s trying to get to; but he’s in no hurry now, is more than content to trail in Sakuraba’s wake as he makes this last leg of the evening last as long as it reasonably can. Sakuraba tips his head to look back at him and catches Takami watching his shoulders; his smile goes wider for a moment, stretching to crinkle at the corners of his eyes before he looks away and clears his throat. “I showed you the one on my shoulder. Tell me about yours.”

“You just showed me the one,” Takami points out, his tone hovering somewhere between teasing and flirtatious; when Sakuraba looks back at him he lets himself flicker a smile of suggestion at the other. “I still haven’t seen the second.” Sakuraba’s mouth quirks, his cheeks darken even in the dim light of the evening, and Takami looks away, content for now with this minor foray into flirtation.

“But I’ll go first,” he says to the shadowy street in front of them. “I’ve got the ones on my arms, of course, you’ve seen those.” He reaches to touch his arm unconsciously, his fingers finding out the curving patterns of the waves printed into color and motion on his skin. “Those are the newest. The oldest are a couple on my legs. I’ve also got one across my shoulders, and a bigger one that covers most of my back.”

“A big one?” Sakuraba asks. He’s gazing interest at Takami now, most of his blush faded to the attention in his eyes. “What of?”

“Mount Fuji,” Takami tells him. “The top is just at my shoulderblades and it runs down to my hips.” He reaches out across the gap between them, slowly, to give Sakuraba time to move away if he wants; Sakuraba watches the movement of his hand, his lips parting on attention, but he doesn’t step away, and when Takami’s fingertips brush against his spine he can hear the soft exhale Sakuraba makes at the contact. “Like this.” He draws his hand up, presses into the curve of Sakuraba’s back between the flex of his shoulders, and then angles out diagonally, pushing hard enough for the other to feel the weight of his touch even through the layers of clothing between them. “And down the other side.” He’s less careful about the movement on the downstroke; the line is less straight, his touch a little less deliberate, and when his fingertips stall just over Sakuraba’s far hip he lets them linger there for a moment, lets the contact of his arm press against the tension of the other’s back for a heartbeat. Sakuraba is very warm even through his clothes, his whole body radiating heat as if he’s glowing; Takami can hear him take a breath, can feel the shift of movement in his shoulders as he manages an inhale and tips back very slightly against the other’s touch.

“That’s the big one,” Takami says, and then he lets his hand fall to reestablish the comfortable gap between their bodies they had before. Sakuraba huffs an exhale but Takami doesn’t look at him; he keeps his eyes on the sidewalk, keeps his attention on maintaining a straight line of motion instead of giving in to the magnetic draw that wants to urge him sideways and against the warm support of Sakuraba’s body again. “And then I’ve got text over the top across my shoulders.”

“Oh?” Sakuraba sounds a little bit breathless, like he’s struggling to hold to the thread of the conversation. Takami can feel a smile dragging at the corner of his mouth, can feel his heart thudding the warmth of adrenaline out into his veins. “What does it say?”

Takami clears his throat. “Glory on the Kingdom.” He does look at Sakuraba then, just long enough to give him a half-apologetic smile. “It’s what my high school football team always chanted before a game.”

“Oh.” Sakuraba’s smiling now, too, his attention on Takami’s face instead of where they’re going. “That’s cool.” He’s slowing, the pace of his steps drawing a halt in front of a quiet apartment complex; it must be his, but he isn’t making any move to open the front gate and move inside, so Takami follows his lead and lets his steps slow to a stop on the sidewalk without dropping the thread of conversation.

“I always liked it,” he admits. “And I wanted something to commemorate the time I was able to play.” He looks up at the building, aiming his words at the darkened windows and the deep blue of the sky instead of to Sakuraba; it’s a little easier to frame the thought when he doesn’t meet the other’s gaze, easier to keep his mental distance from the recollection without getting drawn into the years-old ache of missed opportunity that always lingers in his chest when he thinks of this subject. “I’m glad I got to for a few years, at least.”

Sakuraba’s exhale is loud in the quiet of the street. “God,” he says, sounding a little bit shaky. “You sound so serious about it.” When Takami looks back at him Sakuraba’s smiling, but the curve of his mouth doesn’t reach his eyes; he looks more pained than amused, his expression more apology than happiness. “I always liked playing but.” He lifts a hand, gestures to encompass the whole of Takami’s presence. “You make it sound so intense.”

Takami’s laugh is bright, startling in his throat with the edge of self-deprecation under it; he ducks his head to look at his feet. “I was,” he says, aiming the words at the sidewalk. “Kind of silly, really. It’s not like I could have played outside of high school anyway. I wasn’t good enough to compete on any kind of a larger scale.”

Sakuraba takes a breath. Takami is expecting some kind of reassurance, the usual half-hearted comfort about how good his life is now, how it’s great that he’s found something else he can pursue. Both are true, it’s not that he can fault the statements for their accuracy, but neither of them are any comfort. It’s past-tense hurt in him, a dull ache in memory rather than the sharp-edged pain of the present, but the harder to help for that. He’s ready to find a smile, to agree easily to whatever Sakuraba says; and then Sakuraba says, “I’m sorry,” with as much sympathy in his voice as if he’s personally apologizing, and Takami’s head comes up, his eyes going wide and startled in the first rush of shock at the other’s words. Sakuraba’s watching him, his eyes as soft as his mouth; there’s no self-consciousness anywhere in his expression, just the gentle warm of sincere sympathy behind his eyes.

“Oh,” Takami says, his heart pounding in his chest, all his thoughts scattered to the first shock of Sakuraba’s unexpected reaction. “I.” He blinks, takes a breath. “Thank you.” It’s not quite the right thing to say -- there’s more he wants to put words to, more complexity threatening the back of his tongue if he could just find the coherency for it -- but that’s the important part, really, and it’s enough for Sakuraba to offer him a smile that warms the soft sadness behind his eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, and then ducks his chin to look down at his feet. “I know how it feels to not be good enough.”

Takami stares at Sakuraba. His shoulders are hunched in, curving forward around his hands still in his pockets and the arch of his spine stripping inches from his actual full height. The illumination of the streetlight behind Takami’s shoulders is casting Takami’s shadow around Sakuraba’s feet, the glow of it clearing the top of his head to shine gold into the pale of Sakuraba’s hair. The odd lighting strips color from Sakuraba’s clothes, turns him into monochrome yellow, but Takami thinks it suits him, thinks it the more when Sakuraba lifts his chin to look up at the other. His lashes are dark in the dim lighting, his eyes bright with the same gold the light is casting on everything about him, and for a heartbeat everything else in Takami’s mind dissolves, the regret for the past and contemplation of the future and even the jittery happiness from the pleasure of their easy conversation for the last several hours of the evening. There’s just this exact moment, with the lighting framing Sakuraba like it was just waiting the chance to land at his skin, and Takami feels his lips part, feels his feet move to take him in a step closer to the other. Sakuraba blinks as he comes closer, his shoulders tensing on anticipation, but he doesn’t pull away, and then Takami reaches out for his shoulder, for his hair, and his fingers brush the short-cut gold and Sakuraba’s lashes flutter, his lips parting against the weight of his exhale.

“Sakuraba,” Takami says, and it’s not a question but maybe he means it as one, the same way the tentative weight of his fingers fitting into Sakuraba’s hair and settling against the back of the other’s neck is a question that doesn’t need words to be clear.

Sakuraba’s lashes dip, his gaze skimming away from Takami’s eyes to follow the line of his nose down to his mouth. His throat works, he closes his mouth as he swallows; and then he reaches out to press his hand to Takami’s waist, and shifts to take a half-step forward towards the other’s body, and Takami leans closer, letting his nose bump against Sakuraba’s for a moment as he takes a breath, as he lets the adrenaline in his veins spike high and hot with expectation. He can feel Sakuraba laugh, a tiny huff of air against his lips; and then Sakuraba turns his head, and Takami shuts his eyes, and their mouths come together with as much gentle care as if it’s the first time either of them have kissed anyone. Sakuraba’s mouth is warm, his lips are soft; Takami can feel his heart pounding in his chest, thrumming desperately hard against his ribcage as if it’s trying to break free of its usual position. Then Sakuraba sighs against him, giving up a faint shudder of sensation to hum against Takami’s lips, and Takami sucks in a breath through his nose, and presses in closer, and lets the heat of Sakuraba’s mouth overwhelm all the rest of his senses.

He’s never before been able to stand up straight while kissing someone.


	5. Nostalgic

“Are you sure this is alright?” Takami asks as he falls into step alongside Sakuraba just outside the flowershop. “I don’t want you to get into trouble at work because you’re taking too long on your lunch breaks.”

Sakuraba shakes his head, the negation easy before he’s given any thought to it at all. “No,” he says. “Marco’s really supportive, actually. He says I can take as long as I want.” His actual words had been closer to _if you want to take him back to your apartment I’d say I can handle the shop myself_ , but Sakuraba doesn’t volunteer this particular level of too-much detail for Takami’s easy smile.

“Mm.” Takami looks sideways at Sakuraba. There’s a lock of hair falling loose of its style to catch against his forehead; Sakuraba wants to reach out to catch the dark of it in his fingers and smooth it back into alignment. “He’s not being passive-aggressive, is he?”

“What?” Sakuraba has to blink to catch up to what Takami is asking. “Oh. No, no way.” He shakes his head again and looks away from Takami’s hair to huff a laugh. “Marco’s just kind of weird about romance. I think he’d let me take a whole week off if I had some kind of vacation getaway planned with you.”

Takami’s laugh is low, more of a chuckle than full-throated amusement. “Good to know, I’ll have to keep that in mind.” When Sakuraba looks over at him Takami is watching him from behind his glasses, his eyes soft and mouth curving on a smile. Sakuraba can’t help the way his attention flickers from Takami’s lashes to his lips, can’t help the shiver of warmth that runs down his spine at the thought of Takami’s mouth pressing against his; they’re walking, and in public, and he can’t do anything about it right now but his blood goes hot at the idea of it anyway, his imagination catching to flame against the idea of his hand against the back of Takami’s neck, of Takami’s body pressing close against his, of their lips catching gentle heat between them like they did last night. The idea flares into his blood and flushes into his cheeks, and then Sakuraba has to look away and clear his throat roughly just to keep his attention on what they’re doing instead of the temptation of his imagination.

“What about you?” he asks, looking down at his feet instead of running the risk of meeting Takami’s dark gaze again. “Do you need to be back right at the end of lunch?”

“Ah,” Takami says. “No, I have the day off.” He’s still watching Sakuraba; Sakuraba can feel the weight of the other’s gaze lingering against his skin. “I can spend as long with you as you want.”

“Oh,” Sakuraba says. He ducks his head farther to hide his expression in minimal shadow, but he doesn’t think it really does much to disguise the smile that threatens at his lips. “Cool. Thanks.”

“Of course,” Takami says, and then, with his voice catching into a lighter, more deliberately casual tone, “I did bring those sketches for your tattoo design, if you want to see them. Or I could leave them with you, if you want to look at them without me hovering over your shoulder.”

“That would be awesome,” Sakuraba says. “Seeing them, I mean.” He looks up, lets Takami catch the edge of his smile. “I don’t mind you being there.”

Takami smiles back. “Okay.” He looks back to the sidewalk in front of them, his attention shifting but his smile clinging still to his lips. “I’ll show you when we’re back at your work.”

“Alright,” Sakuraba agrees. It’s easy to capitulate to Takami’s suggestions, easy to follow the other’s lead in conversation as much as in the pace of their strides; Sakuraba doesn’t have to think about it, doesn’t have to shorten his steps or slow his movement to match the other. They just move together, their steps falling into alignment as the conversation falls into comfortable silence, and they might not be talking but Sakuraba is still smiling, still feeling the pleasant warmth of Takami’s presence radiating happiness out into his whole body.

He doesn’t have a particular destination in mind. They’re just walking, moving for the pure enjoyment of being out in the open air together, and usually Sakuraba would find walking without a goal odd but it seems normal with Takami, seems more than reasonable that he would rather spend his lunch break wandering the city streets with the other at his side than inside the sweet-smelling air of the flowershop or even sitting on the bench just outside the tattoo parlor. The thought of the bench makes Sakuraba smile wider, flushes his cheeks into self-conscious happiness at the thought of Takami seeing him, _noticing_ him, like he’s something worth seeing, like he’s somebody worth noticing. It makes him wonder how long Takami was watching, how long he’s been a person of importance in the other’s mind; did Takami wonder about his name, did he notice when Sakuraba didn’t leave the shop on particularly busy days? It’s a strange feeling, to look back and realize that Takami was paying attention to him when Sakuraba had no idea the other existed at all, and stranger to realize that they’re here together now, with Takami smiling into his own thoughts close enough for Sakuraba to reach out and touch his hair, if he wants. Sakuraba’s looking sideways, watching Takami’s mouth curve on that smile instead of paying attention to where their feet are going, and then there’s the sound of shouts, the low rumble of a yell from dozens of throats, and Takami’s head comes up in immediate reaction well before Sakuraba has placed the sound, his eyes going wider while Sakuraba is still looking up to track the noise. There’s a chainlink fence a little ways ahead of them, the green paint on the metal catching Sakuraba’s heart into a sudden twist of nostalgia, and then there’s the shout again, a whole array of voices raised together in a low yell, and Takami says, “They’re playing football” in a strange, low voice that Sakuraba can feel thrum down the whole length of his spine.

“It’s the high school,” Sakuraba says automatically, as if Takami’s words were a question and not a statement. When he looks sideways Takami is staring at the fence with a strange expression on his face, his eyes soft and dark but his mouth so tense that he looks almost like he’s going to cry. The comfort of a moment before is gone, shattered like it never existed; Sakuraba’s heart is pounding in his chest, aching with the need to remedy the strain of that expression on Takami’s face. “We can go back if you want.”

“No,” Takami says, and then he blinks and a little of the tension eases from his face, his mouth goes a little softer. “Let’s see them.”

He takes the lead across the street to the schoolyard fence. Sakuraba trails him a few steps behind, watching the line of Takami’s shoulders and trying to figure out if he’s upset, trying to decide if he would be able to tell even if he was. There’s some kind of a story with him and his time playing football, something Sakuraba suspects runs deeper than his own halfhearted disappointment at his failure to be the star player he had originally hoped to be; there’s a shadow behind Takami’s eyes when he talks about the subject, a dip to his head like the nostalgia of his memories grows heavier with the topic and pulls his chin down into the shadow of his history. But Takami is heading straight for the fence, his footsteps coming faster as they approach, and when Sakuraba steps forward to join him against the painted metal Takami is watching the field on the other side, his lips tugging into a smile that looks sincere in spite of how sad his eyes are. Sakuraba follows the other’s gaze past the barrier of the fence and out to the field, where there are two rows of players in dusty uniforms falling into the almost-synchronization of footwork drills, and he can feel his heart stutter in his chest, can feel the weight of memories unfolding in his head until he’s seeing the past as much as the present. He’s standing where he is still, alongside Takami on the outside of the school fence; but his memory is offering up the taste of dust, the ache of effort in his legs, the shivering, full-body exhaustion that always followed the longest of the practice sessions. Sakuraba can remember slipping in mud, can remember icing bruises from falling against his elbow or colliding too hard with an opposing player; it’s strange to feel it so clearly, to have the recollections come so bright to his mind as if they’re a video in the back of his mind just waiting to be started.

“I couldn’t run.”

Takami’s voice is startling, the sound of his words enough to jar Sakuraba out of his nostalgia and back into the present so suddenly he almost jumps. He looks away from the players and back to Takami standing next to him, but the other is still watching the field, his eyes still soft and his mouth still quirked onto that odd, unthinking smile. His lashes look very long in profile against the bridge of his nose.

“I wanted to be a quarterback,” Takami says, still looking at the field and not at Sakuraba. “I practiced and practiced the whole time I was in elementary school and I joined the football team as soon as I started middle school.” He takes a breath, sighs it out. “But I couldn’t run fast enough to make first string. I hurt my legs in a car accident years ago and no matter how much I trained I couldn’t run fast enough.” He takes another breath, the sound of it thrumming in his throat. “I did well with what I had, though. I’m taller than most other players.” He blinks and looks sideways at Sakuraba; his smile tugs wider for a moment. “You know how much of an advantage that is.”

“Yeah,” Sakuraba admits, not looking away from Takami’s face. “I’m pretty sure that’s the main reason I made it as a first-string receiver, was just because I was tall.”

“We didn’t have anyone like you on my team,” Takami tells him, still looking at Sakuraba sideways. “I didn’t have anyone to throw to who was of a height with me.”

Sakuraba huffs a laugh. “You needed a receiver like me.”

“I did.” Takami blinks back out to the field, sighs another breath; it sounds resigned, heavy with shadows of the past, but he’s still smiling, and his eyes are going softer as he watches the field. “We could have made an amazing team.”

For just a moment Sakuraba can see it in his mind’s eye: Takami on the other end of the field, sunlight catching off the glasses behind his football helmet, the breadth of his shoulders letting him see over everyone else on the field. He can imagine the sound of the other’s voice on his name, the snap of “Sakuraba!” carrying across the field like a warning, like a command to draw his attention back; and the arc of the football through the air, above the heads of the opponents, past the reach of the other receivers, to land solidly against his palms as he leaps and reaches for it.

“Oh,” Sakuraba breathes, his vision bright with the image in his mind. “Wow. Yeah.” He blinks, shakes his head to clear his vision; Takami is looking at him again, his head turned away from the players practicing on the field so Sakuraba can see the dark shadows in his eyes as the other watches him. “I wish we had been able to play together.”

“Mm,” Takami hums, and then he smiles, his mouth curving into warmth that reaches the dark of his eyes, that turns the shadows there into something warm and sweet and inviting. “Me too.” He reaches out, his fingers skimming Sakuraba’s wrist, and Sakuraba looks down for a moment as Takami’s hand fits against his palm. Takami’s fingers catch around his, curling into a gentle hold around his hand, and Sakuraba watches the motion of his own fingers as he tightens his grip to press against Takami’s hand in his.

“It’s okay,” Takami says, and Sakuraba looks up to see the other still watching him, still with that smile at his mouth and melting to softness behind his eyes. “I’m glad to know you now too.”

Sakuraba can feel himself color, can feel heat spread across his cheekbones and darken to visible self-consciousness all over his face. But Takami smiles wider, and he’s smiling too, and when he looks back out to the field Takami does too, the pair of them standing shoulder-to-shoulder on the other side of the fence from the familiar movement of the players.

Their hands fit together as well as they do.


	6. Instruction

Sakuraba is nervous.

Takami can see it in the hunch of his shoulders, in the tremor at his mouth that doesn’t ease no matter what meaningless conversational topic Takami offers. The other keeps lapsing into quiet after a single sentence or two of response, gazing at the sidewalk in front of his feet like it will grant him answers to whatever questions he’s turning over in his head, and after a few attempts Takami decides that leaving him to his thoughts might be less stressful for Sakuraba than attempting conversation that makes him jump every time Takami says his name.

Takami sympathizes, at least in the general sense. He’s not nervous, exactly, or not nervous in the same way; he’s been flushed with adrenaline since this morning, as soon as he had decided to text Sakuraba to invite him over after work, and the anticipation has just been building since then, unfolding to heat in his veins until it’s hard even to match Hiruma’s casual taunts or offer polite replies to Kurita’s usual greetings. Takami’s attention keeps getting derailed by thoughts of Sakuraba, by the remembered soft of his mouth and the imagined gold of his skin, by the image of Sakuraba’s expression going soft on heat as he leans in over Takami on his bed. By the time Takami leaves work he’s pictured it uncountable times, has worn the edge of stress smooth from too much imagining, and maybe the thought turns his smile a little more sultry than he intended, maybe Sakuraba can see the shadows behind his eyes, but Takami can’t figure out how to pin back the desire running through him now that it’s been set free and he isn’t sure he would try even if he knew he could. So instead he lapses to silence to match Sakuraba’s, paces out the distance to his apartment with the sound of their footsteps the only backdrop for his imagination, and it’s not until he draws them to a halt in front of his apartment’s front gate that he takes a breath for speech.

“Sakuraba,” he says, looking up to catch the other’s gaze, and even with the pause Sakuraba startles like he’s been shocked, the glazed unfocus in his expression giving way to wide-eyed surprise at the sound of Takami’s voice. His chin comes up, his eyes going wide at he looks to Takami’s face, and he’s breathless and startled and he’s beautiful, he’s so beautiful, Takami can feel his heart ache just at the soft of surprise clear all across Sakuraba’s face. He takes a breath, swallows back the sudden warmth in his throat, and when he tightens his hand at the gate it’s to steady himself, to hold himself to reality before his imagination can gain the upper hand on his attention once again.

“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” Takami says, carefully, levelling off his words so they won’t show even a shadow of hope or disappointment either one to Sakuraba’s view. “I’d love to spend the evening with you regardless of what we end up doing. If you don’t want to do anything more than watch a movie we can do that.”

“Oh.” Sakuraba blinks, swallows; Takami can see his cheeks start to color, can see embarrassment settle across his cheekbones like a sunburn rising to the surface. “No, I do want to.” His cheeks darken, his lashes flutter as his gaze slides off Takami’s; Takami can see him flinch with self-consciousness. “Do more than watch a movie, I mean.” He lifts a hand to push his fingers through his hair; the strands ruffle under his touch, knocked askew by the contact. His cheeks are going darker even as Takami watches, embarrassment rising under his skin in time with the strain on his voice. “I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

Takami smiles and reaches out to catch his fingers around Sakuraba’s wrist. Sakuraba jumps, his attention coming up from the sidewalk in front of him to Takami’s face instead, and Takami tugs gently against his hand, urging the other’s arm down and away from his face as he interlaces their fingers.

“That’s good,” he says, still watching Sakuraba’s face instead of looking at the gate in front of them. Sakuraba’s blinking at their hands, watching his fingers as he tightens them around Takami’s hold; Takami can feel the warmth of the friction spreading up along his spine, expanding across his shoulders and filling his chest like he’s breathing sunlight. “Me too.” Sakuraba’s gaze jumps up, his mouth comes open on a shocked exhale of surprise, and Takami lets himself smile at the other for a moment before he turns away to manage the lock of the gate one-handed.

They don’t talk again on the way to Takami’s apartment. Takami leads Sakuraba through the gate, and into the main hallway, and down the corridor to the number indicating his own room, and Sakuraba doesn’t speak, and doesn’t pull away; he just keeps his hold on Takami’s hand, the press of his fingers tense like he’s holding to the other’s touch as a guide, and Takami is content to lead him in silence down familiar hallways made bright with his anticipation of what is to come. It’s easy to manage the lock on the door, even with one hand occupied by holding to Sakuraba’s, and then they’re through the front door, Takami holding the weight of it open for Sakuraba to step into his home before he lets it swing shut and latch them into privacy. The entryway is tidy, marked only by Takami’s shoes in a neat line just alongside the entrance, but when Sakuraba hesitates over his own Takami can’t resist reaching for the soft of his shirt, can’t help but brace his hand against the other’s shoulder as he steps in to kiss the uncertainty off his lips. Sakuraba melts to the contact, the tension draining out of him like Takami’s mouth is all the guidance he’s been looking for, and when Takami draws back Sakuraba leans in to follow him, reaching for the other’s waist before he’s even opened his eyes to blink heat-hazed shadows at him.

“This way,” Takami tells him, and he catches at Sakuraba’s other hand too, closing his fingers into a gentle hold on both of the other’s wrists as he backs them up towards the doorway to his bedroom. Sakuraba flushes, understanding coloring his cheeks to red as he stumbles forward in Takami’s wake, but there’s a smile at his lips too, excitement too bright to be eclipsed by the shy embarrassment marking all the rest of his movement. Takami’s glad to see it; it’s reassuring to have evidence of the other’s claim out by the gate, good to see anticipation shadowing the color of his eyes. Sakuraba is glowing, now, radiant with adrenaline as much as self-consciousness, and Takami can’t look away from him even as he pushes the door to his room open and leads Sakuraba into it. The space is familiar, the bed and the low table and the dresser all such fixtures of Takami’s life he doesn’t have to turn to navigate the space; it’s Sakuraba he wants to see, with his gold hair and his wide eyes and his breathless interest as if there’s anything of real import to be seen from the trappings of Takami’s life. His eyes skip across the furniture, the walls, the few pictures hung over the dresser; and then back to Takami, his eyes gone as soft as the part of his lips as he meets the other’s gaze.

“Oh,” Sakuraba breathes, and he draws his hand free of Takami’s lingering hold and takes a step closer to the other. His fingers land at Takami’s hip, his touch catches at the other’s shirt; Takami can feel his breath stick in his chest, can feel the shudder of anticipation run all the way up his spine like electricity prickling itself out into his blood. “Takami.”

“Yes,” Takami says, agreement without a subject, and he reaches for the far side of his shirt, catching his fingers under the hem to match Sakuraba’s tentative touch on the other side. He tugs all at once, drawing the fabric up and off his skin before Sakuraba has a chance to catch up, and then he’s stripping his shirt up over his shoulders and off his head while Sakuraba is still hissing a sudden startled inhale. Takami adjusts his glasses one-handed, looks sideways to toss his shirt over the top of the dresser; and then he looks back, and Sakuraba is staring at him with his eyes gone wide and dark on appreciation. Takami’s never seen Sakuraba look like that before, never seen _anyone_ look at him like that before; it stalls his breathing, tightens his chest with sudden, unexpected warmth, and then Sakuraba breathes out an “Oh,” and reaches to land his fingers ghosting-gentle against Takami’s bare hip. His touch is warm, so delicate it carries greater sensation than more forceful contact would, and Takami ducks his head to the shiver of it, lets his breathing strain in his throat as Sakuraba slides his hand up to catch against the curve of his waist.

“Is this--” Sakuraba asks, his words dying to silence as his fingers spread over Takami’s skin. “Can I see your back?”

 _Of course_ , Takami wants to say, but he can’t, he can’t find the breath to speak with his heart beating as hard as it is. He nods instead, turning under the drag of Sakuraba’s touch to offer his back and shoulders to the other’s view instead of his face, and he can hear the startled intake of breath Sakuraba takes from behind him come a moment before fingertips land against the ink printed across his skin. Takami’s breath leaves him in a rush, his spine prickling to heat all the way up to the back of his neck, and behind him Sakuraba is drawing his fingertips up across his skin, outlining the pattern Takami knows is there even without seeing it.

“‘Glory on the Kingdom,’” Sakuraba murmurs, low enough that Takami thinks it’s probably unconscious more than deliberate sound. His hand comes up, his touch trails over Takami’s shoulders, and Takami shudders helplessly under the weight of the other’s hand, his whole body flushing hot as if Sakuraba’s touch is electricity spilling directly into him. “Ah,” Sakuraba gasps, and his touch draws away, and Takami has to shut his eyes under the weight of that loss, has to take an inhale to steady himself back from the desperate want coursing under his skin. “I’m sorry, I didn’t--”

“No,” Takami says, and looks back over his shoulder to see the way Sakuraba is gazing at him, to offer a smile to ease the momentary panic in the other’s expression. “It feels good.”

“Oh,” Sakuraba says. He blinks, his gaze dropping back to Takami’s shoulder; Takami can see him hesitate for a heartbeat before he reaches out to offer the weight of his fingers against the other’s skin again. Takami lets his breath go, lets his eyes shut, and Sakuraba’s hand presses harder against him, the span of his fingers lying flush to Takami’s skin. “It’s beautiful.”

“I’m glad you think so,” Takami says, and then he swallows and wills the frantic rush of his heart in his chest to slow. “I have tattoos on my legs too, if you want to see those as well.”

It’s not a particularly subtle offer. Takami thinks it’s probably about as hard to see through as the rush of his breathing, as the tremor of want quaking through his hands. But Sakuraba sucks in an inhale like he’s been shocked, his fingers tensing against Takami’s shoulder, and when he says “Please,” he sounds as stunned as if this wasn’t the goal all along.

“Okay,” Takami says, and he ducks his head and opens his eyes to force his attention onto the front of his jeans as he reaches for his belt buckle. He moves slow, carefully enough that even the heat trembling in his wrists won’t disrupt the smooth flow of his motion, won’t interrupt the process of unfastening the button of his jeans or working the zipper open. He pushes the weight of the clothing off his hips, drawing away from Sakuraba’s lingering touch so he can step free of his jeans and lay them over his shirt against the dresser, and then he’s turning back around to face Sakuraba with nothing but the thin of his boxers between his body and the other’s gaze.

Sakuraba looks starstruck. Takami can see his gaze skip from point to point, from the color across Takami’s arms to the dark patterns along his calves to the front of his boxers, where the fabric is drawing taut over the erection Takami doesn’t make any attempt to hide. Takami can feel his skin prickle with self-consciousness, like there’s a chill in the room carried on the awareness of Sakuraba’s eyes against his bare skin; and then Sakuraba breathes out, and says “ _Takami_ ” like a prayer, and Takami’s skin comes alight on the heat in Sakuraba’s voice.

“Here,” he says, and he moves towards the bed, taking a step sideways without looking away from the way Sakuraba is looking at him. It’s easy to lower himself to the soft of the neat sheets, simple to rock back onto an elbow to support himself against the mattress; it’s not until he reaches up towards the head of the bed that he has to turn, and even that’s only for a moment while he finds the bottle tucked into the gap between the mattress and the wall. He straightens immediately, pushing back up to sit up at the end of the bed, but Sakuraba is moving too, ducking to strip his t-shirt up and over his head in a rush of motion that leaves his hair rumpled even more than his fingers had already managed. The shirt drops to the floor, Sakuraba steps in towards the bed, and Takami slides backwards by inches to make space for the other in front of him.

“Come here,” he says, and he’s reaching for the front of Sakuraba’s jeans but Sakuraba is obeying before Takami so much as touches him, bracing a knee at the bed and reaching to steady himself at the other’s shoulder as he climbs up to balance precariously against the soft of the mattress. His hand lands alongside Takami’s hip, his arm flexing to brace himself in place, but his other hand is against Takami’s neck, his fingers curling against the soft-short of the other’s hair as he presses closer, and Takami shuts his eyes in reflexive response to the warmth of Sakuraba’s mouth against his. Sakuraba is breathing as hard as if he’s been running, his fingers trembling with adrenaline against Takami’s neck, but his mouth is warm, and soft, and Takami can feel his whole body going pliant as he loops an arm around Sakuraba’s neck and lets himself fall back to the sheets under him. Sakuraba follows him down, catching his weight with an elbow braced to the mattress alongside Takami’s shoulder, and for a moment they’re caught like that, all Takami’s attention held by the fit of Sakuraba’s hips between his thighs and Sakuraba’s bare shoulders tipped in over his. Sakuraba is shaking very slightly, his body straining with the effort of holding himself up, until when Takami pulls back enough to blink himself into focus he can see the tremor running along Sakuraba’s arm, can watch effort tense against the soft curve of his mouth.

“Sakuraba,” Takami says, letting the syllables of the other’s name drag to heat over his tongue, and Sakuraba shivers through an inhale, his gaze dipping to track the shape of Takami’s mouth for a moment before he visibly draws his focus back up. The tattoo at his shoulder is dark, the black of the ink cutting clean lines across the curve of his body; Takami’s attention catches there, holds to the design of the numbers as his hand comes up to touch the point at the top of the _1_ , to follow the infinity-sign-curve of the _8_ laid against Sakuraba’s chest. “Do you want to handle the prep?”

Takami can see Sakuraba’s eyelashes dip into confusion, can see the crease in his forehead as clearly as the frown at his lips. “Do I…”

Takami takes a breath. “The lube,” he says, blunt with clarity, and Sakuraba’s eyes go wider as Takami reaches to fumble his hold back onto the bottle dropped by his hip and hold it up to demonstrate. “I can open myself up if you’d prefer that, or you can if you want.”

“Oh.” Sakuraba’s focus has slipped from Takami’s eyes again; he’s looking at the bottle now, reaching out to touch his fingertips against it like he’s never seen it before. “I could...for you?”

“Yes,” Takami says, and then, reaching for an explanation for the uncertainty in Sakuraba’s face: “Unless you want to bottom. I don’t mind, we could switch if you’d prefer.”

“No,” Sakuraba says, shaking his head and still not looking away from the bottle. “It’s just. I.” He takes a breath, lets it out; and then, all in a rush: “I haven’t done this before.”

“Oh.” Takami blinks, trying to pin down the import of Sakuraba’s words. “Sex? Or--”

“No,” Sakuraba says again, and his cheeks are going pink but his mouth is setting on determination. “No, I’ve had sex before, I just.” He frowns, swallows like he’s looking for his bearings. “I’ve never been on top.” He goes on, speaking in a rush like he’s afraid of being interrupted: “I want to. I’d like to be, I think. But I.” He makes a face, his expression speaking more clearly than words would. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Ah,” Takami says. “That’s okay.” He takes a breath, lets it out deliberately. “I can talk you through it.”

Sakuraba’s eyes flicker up from the bottle, finally, sliding right past Takami’s mouth to focus on his eyes instead. There’s a pause, hesitation going long; and then, so quiet it’s almost a whisper: “Do you want me to?”

Takami has to take a moment, has to shut his eyes and wait for the shuddering wave of heat to pass over him before he can reclaim the steady edge of his voice. When he opens his eyes again Sakuraba is staring at him, his eyes wide enough that Takami suspects his expression was more than enough answer; but he frames it to words anyway, just so Sakuraba can hear it.

“Yes,” he says, his voice resonant on more sincerity than he has ever deliberately attempted to convey. “Yes, I want you to.”

“Okay,” Sakuraba says, and his voice is trembling but his eyes are dark, his lips are parted on the pace of his breathing as it comes hot in his chest. “Okay, I will.” He swallows hard, visibly drawing an attempt at composure in around himself, and then he reaches out to take the bottle of lube from Takami’s fingers. Takami takes a breath, feels the adrenaline of the moment shudder all down his spine, and then he lets his touch fall from Sakuraba’s shoulder as he reaches to hook his thumbs under the waistband of his boxers. Sakuraba is rocking back over his heels, his attention focused on the bottle in his hands as he gets the lid open to spill liquid over his fingers, and Takami is left to draw his knees up towards himself as he pushes his clothing down off his hips and over his legs. There’s a prickle of self-conscious that shivers down his spine, the threat of embarrassment as he pushes his boxers over the edge of the bed and spreads his legs open around Sakuraba’s hips; but Sakuraba is looking shaky with nerves, and flushed with heat, and the effect of the two together is to strip away all Takami’s self-consciousness and leave him trembling more with anticipation than with stress.

“Alright,” Takami says as Sakuraba closes the lid on the bottle and sets it far off towards the edge of the bed. His hands are shaking very slightly; Takami can see the tremor in his fingers. He’s never wanted to feel anything as much as he wants to feel the hum of adrenaline under Sakuraba’s touch. Sakuraba’s attention flickers, landing briefly at the inside of Takami’s thighs, dragging up for a moment over the heat of his cock and the tension at his stomach, finally leaping up over the span of his chest to meet the other’s gaze like he’s waiting for instruction, like he’s looking for guidance. Takami takes a breath, lets it out, angles his knees wider by an inch of suggestion. “Start with just one finger, and go slow.”

Sakuraba gusts an exhale. “Just like that?” he says, but it’s almost a laugh, as much self-deprecating amusement as it is a real question. He looks back down, his gaze tracking the shadows against the inside of Takami’s thighs, and Takami can see him take a breath, can see him steady himself a moment before he reaches out to brace a hand against Takami’s knee. It’s not a push -- Takami thinks it might be more an attempt for the other to ground himself than anything else -- but then he’s reaching, slick fingers are dragging across Takami’s entrance, and Takami can feel his whole body tense for a moment of near-painful anticipation.

“Yes,” he says, except his voice breaks open, dropping the word into a groan instead of the reassurance he intended. Sakuraba looks up, his eyes going wide on shock, and Takami doesn’t look away, holds Sakuraba’s gaze as he swallows to return moisture to his mouth. “Please, Sakuraba.”

Sakuraba doesn’t pull back. His eyes are dark, his lips parted on a reaction Takami is nearly certain is unconscious, but he doesn’t look down to guide his movements, doesn’t hesitate for more permission. He just takes a breath, and shudders an exhale, and then he’s pushing, and the slick heat of his touch is sliding into Takami’s body with a shimmer of friction that arches the other’s spine in spite of his best attempts to stay relaxed. “Oh,” Sakuraba breathes, sounding shocked and overheated, and “Good,” Takami manages, offering the words to the air even as his heart pounds on the surging heat of adrenaline in his chest. “Like that, keep going.”

Sakuraba keeps going. He’s gentle, Takami can feel the care the other is taking in the deliberate angle of his hand and the slow slide of his movement; but he’s more responsive than Takami expected him to be, far less hesitant about his motions than the other half-expected. He needs almost no instruction to push farther into Takami, none at all to draw back, and if there’s a moment of hesitation before he thrusts in again it’s only a heartbeat, barely enough time for Takami to clear his throat into “You can--” before Sakuraba is angling his wrist and pushing in again. Takami’s spine is prickling with heat, his body tensing in shuddering waves of response to the friction of Sakuraba’s touch inside him, and whatever minimal self-consciousness he had before is lost, dissolved somewhere in the space between Sakuraba spilling liquid over his fingers and falling into a rhythm of working Takami open. There’s no room in Takami’s head for embarrassment, no attention left to give over to the self-reflection of nerves; he’s too busy shuddering to heat against the bed, too lost to the ache of want collecting low in his stomach and the pant of Sakuraba’s breathing catching faster over him.

“More,” he says, after some minutes, when the ache is taking on a desperate edge and the drag of Sakuraba’s touch is fanning the flames higher instead of soothing them. Takami’s hips come up of their own accord, his body reaching for the greater strain of two fingers, his mind desperate for the heat of Sakuraba inside him. “Please, Sakuraba, give me more.”

“Okay,” Sakuraba says, his voice breaking open on heat, and Takami remembers distantly that he’s meant to be instructing him, that it’s directions he should be giving instead of barely coherent pleas. But Sakuraba’s pulling back anyway, drawing his touch free for a moment, and Takami has barely structured the next statement in his throat when the hand at his knee tightens, and Sakuraba’s fingers push into him, and any attempt at coherency he would have made fails under the shudder of heat that ripples through him.

“ _Oh_ ,” he says, and “Sakuraba,” like a command without coherency, and Sakuraba’s fingers tense against his knee as his hand slides in deeper, and Takami’s breathing rushes out of him in a spill of heat, his whole body trembling into a long, responsive shudder as Sakuraba’s touch presses him open. He’s achingly hard, his cock flushed hot towards his stomach, but Takami doesn’t reach for himself, and Sakuraba isn’t looking down; he’s gazing at Takami’s face instead, his eyes dark and mouth soft as if on disbelief, as if he can’t collect himself from the pull of whatever unstudied response is spread over Takami’s features. Takami can feel the sensation rush through him in waves, tensing through his thighs and quivering relief along his spine, and his vision is going hazy, drifting out of importance as Sakuraba draws back to push forward a little deeper, a little faster. This is all unstructured, Sakuraba is working by instinct or just reflexive response to Takami’s expression because Takami certainly isn’t directing him, not when he can hardly find the breath to frame the shape of Sakuraba’s name in the back of his throat. Instead he’s reaching up, out, stretching his fingers over the gap between them until his palm presses to dark ink, until his fingers are curling over Sakuraba’s shoulder and his thumb is fitting to the lines of the _18_ clear on his skin.

“Good,” he says, a gasp offered midway through one of Sakuraba’s movements, and then, as Sakuraba’s fingers slide deep and Takami’s spine arches into the rush of heat: “ _Ah_ ,” low in the back of his throat, dropping down through a range he could never attain deliberately. His knees slide wider, his hip cant up to match Sakuraba’s fingers, and Sakuraba makes a faint noise, something like the outline of a whimper on his lips as Takami tenses around his fingers. It’s good, Takami thinks, it’s friction and pressure and everything he wants but:

“Okay,” he says, and it’s a strain to find calm for his voice but he can hear the words echo in his ears, can hear composure shimmer over them like it’s someone else’s body he’s borrowing for this. “I should be fine now.”

“Oh my god,” Sakuraba says out loud, the words quivering on his tongue. “Are you sure?”

He sounds so uncertain. It’s strange to hear, when he’s been so sure of his movements, when he’s been pushing Takami open around the angle of his fingers with no more than minimal instruction. But he sounds lost, now, shaky with sudden panic like Takami’s words have set off a shiver of insecurity in him, and when Takami blinks his vision into focus that question is behind Sakuraba’s eyes too, a whole list of self-conscious inquiries arrayed behind the dark of his lashes. Takami looks at him for a moment: the bright of his hair, the dark of his eyes, the self-doubt so out-of-place amidst the perfection that Sakuraba is; and then he smiles, and says “Yes,” with all the certainty that months of pining can grant the statement. Sakuraba blinks, his expression going slack on surprise, and Takami shifts to push up on his elbow, to lift himself from the bed so he can slide his hand sideways against Sakuraba’s shoulder and up to his neck.

“Sakuraba,” he says, and then, with his heart fluttering heat into his pulse: “Haruto,” just to hear the way Sakuraba’s breath catches, just to see the way his lashes dip into startled pleasure. His fingers fit into Sakuraba’s hair, drag gentle through the strands at the back of his neck; Sakuraba’s mouth comes open, his throat works on a whimper, and his head tips forward, the whole curve of his shoulders giving way to offer his hair for Takami’s fingers. It makes Takami smile, presses affection against the inside of his ribs, and when he leans in closer it’s to press his lips to Sakuraba’s hair, to fit a kiss against the edge of the other’s forehead.

“Take your pants off,” he murmurs, smiling into the other’s hair as Sakuraba shudders against him. “And then come back here.”

Sakuraba obeys. He’s gentle about sliding his fingers back and out of Takami, as slow on the motion as he was initially; it still makes Takami shudder, still leaves him trembling with heat as Sakuraba pulls away from the weight of his touch and back to move off the end of the bed. He’s a little shaky on his feet, a little clumsy with his jeans, but Takami is preoccupied by other pursuits, namely pushing to sit upright so he can reach for the set aside bottle of lube. It’s easy to spill a few drops of liquid over his palm to spread cool across his skin as he sets the bottle aside, and then Sakuraba is kicking his feet free of his jeans and Takami is reaching out for him, fitting his fingers to the dark pattern of the tattoo at Sakuraba’s hip as he draws the other back in to kneel between his legs again.

“Here,” Takami says, his bracing hold against Sakuraba’s hip steadying the other’s balance as Sakuraba reaches out to plant a hand against the bed, as Sakuraba’s free hand comes up to catch at Takami’s shoulder. He’s very close like this, his shoulder bumping Takami’s and his mouth nearly level with the other’s collarbone; Takami turns his head sideways and presses his nose against Sakuraba’s hair while he reaches out to close a slippery hold around the heat of the other’s cock. Sakuraba shudders against him, his hips bucking forward in instinctive search for more friction, and Takami sighs himself into heat, tightening his hold to slide slick over Sakuraba’s skin. “Good, okay.” It’s meaningless, encouragement spilling to incoherence over the hum of anticipation straining in the back of his mind, but it doesn’t matter; Sakuraba is breathing hard against his skin and Takami has an arm around the other’s shoulders, is drawing him back and down as he tips them both over the mattress. Sakuraba shifts closer, finding space for his elbow over Takami’s shoulder as he braces himself, and Takami arches his hips up off the sheets, hooking a leg around Sakuraba’s hip to pull himself closer as Sakuraba shudders a breath and looks down at the minimal space left between them.

“Like this,” Takami says, but that’s meaningless too, unnecessary direction when Sakuraba is already rocking forward, when Takami’s slippery hold on the other is drawing them into alignment with each other. Takami’s heart is pounding, his body aching itself into heat; and Sakuraba is leaning over him, trembling very slightly under the weight of Takami’s hold on him. Sakuraba’s hips come forward, Takami’s back arches to bring him up; and then “There,” Takami says, and Sakuraba rocks forward, and they slide together in one motion as easily as if they were always meant to fit together like this. Sakuraba gasps a breath, the sound hissing into a whimper in the back of his throat, and Takami lets it out in the form of a sigh as all the strain of desperate want in him eases into the calm of satisfaction. Sakuraba is breathing hard over him, his whole body tense on effort, and Takami draws his hand up, fitting his fingers into Sakuraba’s hair as he draws the other in closer against him. Sakuraba’s hips rock forward by another inch, his cock slides deeper into Takami, and they both make a sound this time, a note of reaction caught in the space between the two of them.

“God,” Sakuraba says, turning his head so his mouth catches against Takami’s jaw, so his hair tangles at the frame of Takami’s glasses. “I’m not hurting you?”

“No,” Takami says, bracing slippery fingers against the curve of Sakuraba’s back to draw him closer. “Keep going, Haruto.”

Sakuraba is more than obedient. He moves when Takami tells him to, rocking forward to press the other open until Takami gasps with the heat, until Sakuraba himself is panting and trembling over him; and then he draws back, and comes forward again without waiting to be told, anticipating Takami’s request before the other has put words to it. Takami can feel the want in him uncoiling into the slow build of satisfaction, can feel pleasure radiating out across his ink-marked shoulders and down to the very tips of his fingers, and when he turns his head sideways Sakuraba meets him there, offering the breathless part of his lips for a kiss as fast as Takami looks for it. They fall into rhythm with each other without trying; Takami doesn’t know if it’s Sakuraba matching him, or the shudder through his own body that is following the lead of Sakuraba’s movements, and he doesn’t think it matters much in the end, not when they come together as smoothly as they are. He feels like he could stay like this forever, like he could linger for a lifetime in the shuddering waves of heat that ripple through him with each thrust of Sakuraba’s hips; but then Sakuraba takes a breath, and Takami can hear the strain under it, can hear the desperate restraint in his throat form out a far better warning than the “Takami?” his voice breaks over a moment later.

“Yes,” Takami says, and lets his hold at Sakuraba’s back go to draw his hand down between them instead so he can close his hold around the as-yet-untouched heat of his cock. He shivers with the first contact, the slow-building heat along his spine suddenly going bright and sharp-edged, and Sakuraba must be able to feel the tremor in him because he gasps into Takami’s shoulder, a breath that is encouragement as much as a whimper of heat. Takami strokes over himself, slow, tensing his fingers to draw the friction sparking into white heat up his spine, and over him Sakuraba’s movement stutter, his hand clutches to a fist on the sheets.

“Takami,” he says, sounding desperate, sounding almost like a sob. “I can’t--I’m going--”

“I know,” Takami says, and his voice is skipping in his throat, breaking to crystalline heights and shadowy lows even over the few syllables he forms at his lips. “It’s okay, Haruto.”

“Oh,” Sakuraba gasps, “Ichiro--” and his voice gives way in time with his rhythm, his hips rocking forward and stuttering to stillness as he starts to come. Takami can feel the heat in him, can hear Sakuraba gasping relief at his shoulder, and he shuts his eyes and twists his hand and lets the friction pull him over the edge, lets the building tension along his spine crest and spill over him in long, trembling pulses of heat. Sakuraba’s gasping over him, still quaking through the aftershocks of his own orgasm, and for a long span of seconds Takami lets everything but the shiver of pleasure in his veins and the sound of Sakuraba’s breathless inhales at his shoulder fade out into unimportance.

Sakuraba doesn’t pull away. It’s not until Takami shifts his hand between them that the other moves, and then it’s only to push himself up and away from Takami’s shoulder with “Oh, sorry” blurted like it’s been startled out of him. Takami smiles reply, not bothering with finding the coherency for words, and it’s only when he unwinds his leg from Sakuraba’s hip that the other ducks his head and rocks his weight back so he can slide out of Takami and reclaim his balance over his knees. His hair is gold around his face, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded with lingering pleasure; Takami can see damp clinging to his mouth, can see the question forming as Sakuraba licks against the flush of his lips and opens his mouth to speak. So he reaches up instead, catching his fingers against Sakuraba’s shoulder while the other is still seeking coherency, and when Sakuraba’s words give way to a startled inhale Takami smiles up at him and lets his gaze go as soft and as warm as his voice.

“Haruto,” he says, the syllables slurring to heat in the back of his throat. “Come here.”

Sakuraba’s lashes flutter, his mouth curves on a startled smile; and he comes, leaning down to claim the space on the sheets alongside Takami at the draw of the other’s hand. Takami turns sideways to meet him, to fit his touch against the smooth curve of Sakuraba’s hip and draw the other in closer, and Sakuraba reaches for him as quickly, his fingers sliding under Takami’s arm so his hand can come up to catch against the ink at the other’s spine. Takami smiles, and leans in closer, and when his lips brush Sakuraba’s forehead Sakuraba shuts his eyes and smiles into the contact.

Neither of them needs any instruction in this.


	7. Patience

“I like your tattoos.”

Sakuraba has been gazing at Takami’s bare skin for the last fifteen minutes, letting the bone-deep warmth of satisfaction spread out into him while his gaze wanders across the dark of the patterns printed across the other’s back and shoulders. They’re beautiful, the images and the effect together; it’s been more than enough to hold Sakuraba’s heat-dazed attention, enough to keep his focus trailing out across the dark script of the lettering over Takami’s shoulders and climbing up the edges of the mountain detailed across the other’s spine. After a few minutes Sakuraba even pushed himself to upright to gain the advantage of height to look down at the other’s skin, and Takami had smiled without opening his eyes and turned over onto his stomach to pillow his head against his forearms and settle into what looks like a doze. Sakuraba doesn’t want to disturb him, if he’s drifting into sleep in truth, but he can’t resist the urge to reach out to press his fingertips to the dark of the ink, and Takami doesn’t startle awake, just hums soft encouragement, so Sakuraba lets his touch linger, wandering up and down the detail of the ink while Takami lies still and smiling against the bed. It’s only after a handful of minutes of this that Sakuraba finally puts voice to the implication under his touch, and only as he speaks that Takami opens his eyes and looks back over his shoulder at him.

“I have been getting that impression,” he says, with a smile that takes even the light edge of teasing off the words. “Thank you.”

“I hope mine turns out half as well,” Sakuraba says, reaching again to trail his fingers over the text across Takami’s shoulders.

Takami huffs a laugh half-muffled by the angle of his head. “Me too.” He shifts an arm, his shoulder flexing under the ink laid over it; Sakuraba can see the lettering curve with the motion, can see the straight-line elegance of the image along Takami’s spine shift into a ripple as if with the surface of the ocean. “I’ll find the right design soon, I promise.”

“Oh,” Sakuraba says, and breaks off into a laugh of his own more apology than amusement. “It’s no rush, really.”

“Mm,” Takami hums, understanding and gentle disagreement at once. “I’ll bring some more designs by tomorrow and you can take a look at them.”

“Okay,” Sakuraba agrees, but his attention isn’t on the subject at hand; it’s sliding down Takami’s back again, following the sweep of the other’s spine down to the pale curve of his hip, to the ease of tension against his thighs as he sprawls across the bed. His knees are tipped open against the sheets, falling into a graceful angle as beautiful as it is unstudied; Sakuraba can feel his skin prickle into heat just at the sight, just from the unthought intimacy of the position. It’s enough to draw his breathing heavy in his chest, enough to let his exhale rush out into a sigh, and then his focus skips down to the dark ink printed across Takami’s legs, and the flicker of desire rising in his veins steps aside for the force of curiosity.

“What are these?” Sakuraba asks, sliding down across the bed so he can reach out for Takami’s knee. He had seen the ink before, had briefly considered the spreading dark of the pattern running up the other’s calves and knees to arch out across his thighs, but in the distraction of fitting himself between Takami’s legs he didn’t take enough time to process the design tattooed across them. From this angle it looks random, a strange spreading angle of lines in shifting shades of brown; and then Takami stirs, and turns onto his side, and the lines draw in towards each other and become the branches of a tree instead.

“Oh,” Sakuraba breathes, his inhale catching to shock in the back of his throat. When he reaches out for the ink his fingertips catch against the dark of the tattoo, his palm weights against the patterned bark of a tree so detailed he can almost feel the texture against his skin. “It’s a tree.”

“Yes,” Takami says. There’s an odd tone under his voice, the weight of some shadow underneath the slow drag of heat on his throat; Sakuraba looks up to the other’s face, unsure if this is an acceptable line of conversation. But Takami is smiling, the expression sincere enough that it’s curling into the corners of his eyes, and after a moment Sakuraba smiles back and looks back down to his fingers.

“It’s beautiful,” he says, trailing his touch against Takami’s calf and up to the angle of his knee.

“I’m glad you think so,” Takami tells him, the words absolutely sincere and absent even the tinge of amusement he had when Sakuraba complimented his other tattoos. “Those are the first ones I got.” Sakuraba looks up at the other’s face again, his attention drawn away by the suggested story under Takami’s voice, and Takami smiles at him again before he pushes himself off the mattress to sit up.

“They’re over the scars,” he says, and his fingers come out to graze across Sakuraba’s, to press against the dark of the ink over his skin. “From the accident.” Sakuraba follows the motion of Takami’s fingers, tracking the drag of the other’s touch across the pattern, and when he blinks he can see it, the texture of the other’s skin alternating under the design laid so cleanly over it Sakuraba can barely make it out even to look for it. It’s easier to feel, when he reaches to trail Takami’s gesture; the shift of the sensation isn’t his imagination after all, but an actual transition between healthy skin and the smoother line of scar tissue. They span all across Takami’s legs, Sakuraba realizes as he follows the texture under his fingertips, an asymmetrical tracery of long-healed injury converted into the spreading range of branches running up the other’s legs.

“Oh,” Sakuraba says again, because he’s not sure what else to say and there’s a strange ache in his chest, the weight of sympathy and the press of appreciation so nearly even he can’t surrender wholly to either. “Wow.”

Takami shifts against the bed, turning to sit up completely over the sheets. From the front the design of the trees is clear, the arch of the branches winding up towards Takami’s hips austere and elegant. “I wanted something beautiful,” he says, reaching out to touch the pattern of the scars across one leg; Sakuraba can see the distraction in the drag of the other’s fingers, in the idle motion of his hands. “Not to hide the scars, but to make them something I could be proud of.” He’s smiling when Sakuraba looks up at him, his eyes dark and his mouth soft as he looks down at the tattoos over his skin.

“Why did you get just the trees?” Sakuraba asks, still looking at Takami’s face instead of at his legs.

“And not leaves or flowers?” Takami asks. His fingers are still trailing across his skin; his mouth softens into contemplation, his hand tightening against the span of scarring Sakuraba can see just under one knee. “It seemed better this way.” He takes a breath, lets it out with the slow weight of deliberation. “I didn’t want to cover them up. More than this would have felt like I was trying to hide the scars, and I’m not trying to hide them, just change the way they’re seen.” He smiles again, tips his head to meet Sakuraba’s gaze. “And this way they have the most potential.”

“Oh,” Sakuraba breathes, and then he looks down again, considering the spread of the branches across Takami’s legs. They make him think of winter, as if they’re waiting out the cold to make it to the warmth of springtime, as if the bare lines of their branches are an embodiment of patience printed to permanence on Takami’s skin. Sakuraba draws his touch up again, across the angle of the branches spreading from the dark of the main trunk, and there’s a flicker of recognition in the back of his head, some deep-down familiarity carried on the arch of the branches and the suggestion of springtime they cast in his mind. He can see soft pink when he blinks, can imagine the flutter of petals through the air, and: “They look like cherry trees,” he says without thinking, without working through the implications of the statement. It’s not until the words are out that his mind catches up to his voice, only when he hears the sound of his own words that he feels the weight of them settle over his as-yet-unmarked shoulders like a physical burden. He looks up in a rush, his eyes going wide as he looks to Takami’s reaction; and Takami is watching him, his head tipped to the side and his mouth curving into a soft smile like he’s holding the warmth of a shared secret at his lips.

“Yeah,” he says, and when he reaches out this time it’s to ghost his fingertips against Sakuraba’s wrist, trailing over the flutter of the other’s pulse like he’s reassuring himself of Sakuraba’s presence as his fingers close into a gentle hold. “They do, don’t they?”

Sakuraba can feel his spine prickle with adrenaline, a shiver of understanding running through him until his breathing gusts out of him in a rush. But when he pulls his hand away from Takami’s leg it’s only to turn his palm up against the other’s, and when he leans in towards Takami’s smile it’s with one of his own to match.

He can feel the promise of his future tattoo warm as springtime across his shoulders.


	8. Complete

Takami has finished the design.

He knows he has it this time, knows it with a deep-down certainty that allows no space for doubt. Sakuraba hasn’t seen the drawing yet -- it’s a variant on one of the patterns the other liked best from their last conversation -- but Takami knows, is sure enough in himself that he does what he hasn’t yet taken the time to do and adds color to the outline of the sketch on the page. It’s soothing, a lulling process of bringing the shading that Takami has been seeing in his mind to visibility on the page, and he doesn’t know how long it takes; he falls into distraction as he works, losing himself to any but the most dramatic of interruptions, and neither Musashi nor Kurita comes in to announce an unscheduled visitor over the unmeasured time it takes him to finish the drawing. It’s not until he puts his pencil down and takes a breath that he can feel time resume its normal flow, that he can feel the rhythm of his usual existence reinstate itself around him, and even then it takes him a moment before he can collect himself enough to check the clock.

It’s later than he thought it was, earlier than he feared; even a worst case scenario would just require a phone call to see if Sakuraba’s free for a visit, possibly waiting until the next morning if he’s unavailable for the evening. But the flowershop is still open, Sakuraba should still be finishing out the last hour of his shift, and that means Takami can catch him when he has a break between other customers. He draws the design across the desk towards himself, finds a folder to wrap against the delicate give of the paper itself, and then he takes the folder, and takes himself, and heads for the front of the shop.

“I’m going to go run a design past a customer,” he says as he comes up to the front, abandoned at present but for Kurita at his usual station and Hiruma leaning over the edge of the counter to gesture expansively at one of the sets of piercings in the case below. “I should be back within the hour.”

“A customer, huh?” Hiruma says, barely glancing at Takami’s folder before he cuts his gaze up to smirk amusement at the other’s face. “If you have time for a quickie in the middle of the day maybe Musashi should find you more work to do.”

“Maybe he should find _less_ for you to do,” Takami suggests in response. “I believe you’re the one who struggles to separate your personal and professional life.” The words are cutting but he gives them with a quirk of a smile and a duck of his head to indicate the humor, and while Kurita gasps shock at his statement Hiruma just crackles a laugh and straightens from the angle he’s making over the case.

“I’m great at keeping the two separated,” he says, bracing his hand against the case and pushing himself up to sit at the edge of it while Kurita offers incoherent protest. “Are you a prude after all, Takami? Is a closed door not enough privacy to suit your needs?”

“Not when it’s the door to the back room,” Takami tells him, but he’s smiling and lifting his hand to wave a farewell to the other two. “I’ll be back before closing. Give me a call if anyone comes in asking for me.”

“Have a good time!” Kurita offers in a far more polite version of the wolf whistle Hiruma gives as dismissal. Takami laughs acknowledgment, his cheeks only a very little bit flushed with self-consciousness, and then he pushes the door to the shop open and heads down the street to the flowershop.

It’s quiet when he gets there. Takami knows things are fairly calm for Sakuraba just before closing; it’s late in his shifts that he gets chatty, sending strings of texts about his day and asking after Takami’s for the other to scroll through and reply to after he leaves his own job. So Takami’s not expecting much company when he comes in the door, and he’s not disappointed; there’s just Sakuraba himself, with his broad shoulders hunched over the counter so all Takami can see of him for the first moment is the gold of his hair. Then he lifts his head, his eyes coming up along with a smile for the newcomer, and when he sees who it is his smile goes wider into the shape of sincerity, crinkling the corners of his eyes with delight at the unexpected visit.

“Takami,” Sakuraba says, his voice dipping into soft delight over the other’s name. “What are you doing here?”

Takami smiles back at him. “Is it a bad time?”

“What?” Sakuraba blinks, visibly confused for a moment before he backtracks through his own statement. “Oh! No, no, not at all.” He blushes, huffs a laugh, reaches up to ruffle a hand through his hair; he manages to look as intensely self-conscious as someone nearly two meters tall can achieve. “I just wasn’t expecting to see you today.”

“Sorry I didn’t let you know I was coming by.” Takami draws the folder from under his arm, holding it out to offer across the counter to Sakuraba. “I wanted to surprise you.”

Sakuraba’s eyes go wide, his mouth goes soft as he reaches to take the folder from Takami’s hold with reverent care. “Oh,” he breathes. “Is this…”

“It’s a sample design for your tattoo,” Takami says, looking at Sakuraba’s face instead of at the folder. “I wanted to come by and see what you thought.” He’s trying to keep his tone neutral, trying to hold back the thrum of excitement in his throat, but either he fails in his attempt or Sakuraba’s intuition gets the better of him, because the other glances up to stare wide-eyed at Takami before he opens the folder in his hands.

“Is it the last one?” he asks, but he’s flipping open the folder as he speaks, and he looks down before Takami has decided how to respond. Takami watches Sakuraba’s eyes widen, watches his whole expression go slack with stunned appreciation, and then he answers his own question with an “ _Oh_ ” that comes out as breathless as if Takami had kissed him.

“I had the idea last night,” Takami says, offering the vague description as if Sakuraba won’t know precisely what he was doing last night, as if he won’t think immediately of the hours they spent tangled together in Takami’s bed before Sakuraba finally made his way home for the evening and Takami laid out the paper for the design that formed itself from the press of Sakuraba’s touch over the tattooed scars over his legs. Sakuraba glances up at him, his mouth quirking on a smile for a moment, but it’s only a breath before he’s looking back at the folder, moving to lay it open on the counter so Takami can see the soft-formed pink of the design laid out in the space between them. “I wanted to do it in color so you could see how it would look once it’s done.”

“This is perfect,” Sakuraba says without hesitation, without looking up from the press of his fingertips against the edge of the sheet. The shapes of the flowers scattered across the page are delicate, so abstract in places that they look more like fingerprints of color than blossoms in truth, but taken all together it looks like springtime, like the haze of flowers that cling to the branches of the cherry trees like clouds of color set against the bright blue of the sky. “This is exactly right.”

Takami sighs a breath of relief no less sincere for how sure he was even before he handed over the page. “I’m so glad to hear it.”

“It’s so.” Sakuraba’s fingertips skim the design, his eyes trailing across the curves sketched out by Takami’s hand late last night and during the afternoon today. His mouth curves into a smile, his throat works on a startled laugh. “It’s beautiful.” He lifts his head and turns his face up to beam delight at Takami; his eyes are soft on appreciation, his mouth curving on the same irrepressible happiness glowing all across his expression. “Thank you so much.”

Takami doesn’t say _you’re welcome_. It’s not the right response, not the right shape for the affection filling his chest at the look in Sakuraba’s eyes and the curve of delight at his lips. There aren’t easy words for it, for the gratitude and relief and pride and love all pressing together against his ribs, so he smiles instead, and leans in over the counter, and watches Sakuraba’s lashes dip into submission the moment before Takami’s fingers fit against the back of his neck and Takami’s mouth settles against his.

Takami can feel the soft of Sakuraba’s smile cling to his lips.


	9. Fingerprints

Takami has very gentle hands.

Sakuraba can acknowledge that much, even around the needlepricks of pain that are trembling down his spine with each new indentation of ink against his shoulder. Takami has one hand set carefully just along Sakuraba’s spine, his fingers spreading wide as if to steady the other, as if Sakuraba has moved at all except for the involuntary tremors at a particularly painful action. And it is a comfort, if probably a somewhat different one than for most of Takami’s customers; Sakuraba finds the strain of nervousness along his spine giving way to the weight of surrender, can feel his body going slack and heavy against the support under him until even the clear-bright pain at his skin falls like rain into a pond, tiny ripples of sensation that start to fade as quickly as he feels them. Takami’s hand is still against his back, the steady pressure of his hold a comfort even through the catch of the latex glove keeping his touch from Sakuraba’s skin directly, and the pain is bearable, easing into a dull ache of hurt that spans Sakuraba’s shoulders like the first pain of a sunburn against the skin. Sakuraba is almost relaxed, between the weight of Takami’s touch holding him still and the rhythm of the needle pinning color under his skin; it’s only occasionally that the hurt catches into too-much for a moment, that the ache goes bright enough to run a spasm of pain down Sakuraba’s spine and against Takami’s hold.

“Sorry,” Takami says from behind him, his tone flat with distraction more than insincerity. “I’m almost done.”

“It’s okay,” Sakuraba says. He wants to look back over his shoulder to see the dark-eyed focus Takami is giving the pattern laid over his skin, but that will shift his body away from the deliberate care of Takami’s movements and interrupt the process, so he doesn’t. He stays where he is instead, his head turned sideways against the chair under him so his smile ends up aimed at the wall instead of at the other. “It’s not that bad.”

“Oh good,” Takami says, but he still sounds distracted, like he’s not really hearing Sakuraba’s reply any more than his own words. His touch is still gentle, his movements still steady; the pattern of pain against Sakuraba’s back is unaffected by the distraction of their conversation. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Yeah,” Sakuraba agrees. “It’s just part of the process, right?”

“Mm,” Takami hums, his focus overriding even his minimal response, and Sakuraba lets the conversation go and lets his mind wander across the designs pinned to the wall, across the bright color of ink on skin arrayed on the space in front of him like an art show in miniature. Taken all together Sakuraba can see the mark of Takami’s style in the designs, the weight of the other’s impact rising from behind the layers of dozens of images different enough that they appear distinct at first. It’s only seen all at once that Sakuraba can start to see the whisper of Takami’s style, the touch of his hand so gentle it’s nearly invisible in any single piece. There’s still the ache across Sakuraba’s shoulders, the throb of hurt layering under his skin with the burden of the color Takami is pressing over his back, and he can picture the finished design even as Takami is still setting the last lines, can imagine the influence of Takami’s hand in the tattoo like unseen fingerprints warm against his skin. It makes him smile, warms his cheeks with a flush of happiness more than of pain, and then Takami says, “That’s it,” and draws the weight of his touch away from Sakuraba’s back.

“Oh,” Sakuraba says, and tries to move immediately, like the shift of the other’s touch was enough to break the spell that has held him so carefully motionless against the chair in front of him. He can’t see over his shoulder enough to make out the details of the design even when he cranes his neck, and then Takami is laughing and replacing his fingers against Sakuraba’s shoulder to push him back down against the chair.

“Can I see it?” Sakuraba asks, adrenaline spreading into heat under his skin until it entirely eclipses the lingering ache across his shoulders from the pain of the tattoo. “How does it look?”

“It’s good,” Takami tells him, his palm still weighting Sakuraba down against the support of the chair. “It looks really good. Let me clean it up and I’ll bring the mirror around for you, just a minute.”

“Okay,” Sakuraba says, and tries to relax under the warmth of Takami’s hold at his shoulder. The tattoo stings as Takami rubs antiseptic over it, the bright heat of the pain coming in sync with the duller, deeper hurt of contact against the raw skin, but Sakuraba barely notices except to hiss with the first flare of hurt into his veins. He’s too excited, like the weeks of thought and planning and patience that have led up to this point are suddenly coalescing into more anticipation than he can bear, until it’s impossible to resume the passive angle he had taken over the chair while Takami was working. Now he’s restless, his shoulders shifting like they’re itching with the excitement in his thoughts, but Takami doesn’t tell him to hold still, and when Sakuraba cranes his neck to look over his shoulder the other is smiling down at him, satisfied appreciation so clear in his eyes that Sakuraba has another shudder of excitement run through him just at seeing Takami looking at the pattern he hasn’t yet seen for himself.

“There,” Takami finally says, sighing the word as he draws the antiseptic back and away from Sakuraba’s shoulder. Sakuraba can feel his skin subside into its previous dull ache as the sharper hurt fades out, can feel the strain of the new tattoo across his shoulders when he shifts his arm. “Let me get you a mirror.” Sakuraba pushes himself up off the chair, energy too warm and radiant in his veins to let him stay still, and behind him there’s the sound of wheels rolling across the floor as Takami pulls over the angled mirror to cast visibility over Sakuraba’s back. Sakuraba looks over his shoulder, struggling to get a glimpse of the pattern; he sees pink, the color of the ink spreading over his shoulders enough to eclipse even the flush of his irritated skin, and then Takami is reaching for a smaller hand mirror and offering it to him for a better angle. Sakuraba sits farther upright, bracing the mirror against his hands as he seeks the right view; and then he catches it, lining up the overhead light with the reflection of the paired mirrors, and he can see the pattern of the tattoo marked out clearly across his shoulders.

It’s beautiful. Sakuraba had been worried the color would be too pale, would make it difficult to see the outline of the flowers as separate from the natural flush on his skin; but the shading is different, darker, the curve of the petals is enough to make the abstract shape of the pattern clearly identifiable even against the dark flush of the ache across his skin. The flowers spill across his shoulder, heavy along his shoulderblades like they’re clinging to the line of some unseen branch and toppling into a lighter rain of blossoms along the length of his back as they follow the dip of his spine. By the time the color has made it to the small of his back the blossoms have faded out, leaving just a handful of curling pink scattered over Sakuraba’s skin like springtime rain.

“Oh,” he breathes, his attention so fixed on the tattoo he can’t even look up to see the way Takami is smiling at him. “It’s perfect.”

“Ah,” Takami says, breathing the one word into a sigh of relief. “I’m so glad.” Sakuraba blinks his attention away from the view of his new tattoo, looking sideways in the reflection of the mirror to Takami’s face. Takami is watching his back instead of his eyes as he tugs his gloves off, smiling satisfaction at the pattern of the flowers spilling across Sakuraba’s shoulders; he looks tired, and pleased, and radiant with so much appreciation behind his eyes that Sakuraba’s breath catches in his throat. Takami blinks, his attention drawn aside by the sound of Sakuraba’s inhale, and then he looks up and into the mirror to catch the weight of the other’s eyes on him. They stare at each other in reflection for a moment, the mirror bringing them into alignment while Sakuraba still has his back to Takami; and then Takami smiles, a slow, spreading curve of warmth at his lips, and Sakuraba has to turn, because even the clear lines of Takami’s expression in the mirror aren’t as good as the soft darkness in his eyes in reality. Sakuraba lets the mirror lower, and Takami reaches out for him, and Sakuraba is smiling even before Takami’s fingers have landed warm against the back of his neck to pull him closer to the other’s mouth.

Takami’s fingerprints on his skin are as warm as the glow of the tattoo across his back.


	10. Spring

“Oh,” Sakuraba manages as Takami slides a hand up over the tremor of his stomach and across the pattern of breathing in his chest. “Ichiro, I.”

“Mm,” Takami hums against the other’s hip, opening his mouth to press the warmth of a kiss against Sakuraba’s bare skin, and Sakuraba quivers under him, all the air in his lungs rushing out of him in a huff of sound that has the outline of a laugh even as it spills to the air. “This is okay, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” Sakuraba says, his knee sliding wider across the bed at an angle Takami is fairly certain is instinctive more than deliberate. “God, yeah, this is good.” Takami lets his shoulders press closer to the bed and reaches out to curl his fingers under Sakuraba’s knee; after a moment Sakuraba takes the hint enough to lift his foot up and hook his leg over Takami’s shoulder so the warmth of his skin is weighting hard against the other’s back. Takami hums against Sakuraba’s hip, encouragement more in the vibration than anything coherent under the sound, and then he turns his head sideways to catch the heat of Sakuraba’s flushed cock against his lips. He can feel Sakuraba tense, can hear the shudder of sound as the other arches up to meet him, and he lets his hand slide up higher so he can spread his fingers wide against the tension humming along Sakuraba’s thigh. Sakuraba huffs another laugh, more breathless than amused this time, and when Takami presses in closer to take Sakuraba farther back over his tongue fingers land in his hair as Sakuraba presses both hands against his scalp. One winds into the longer hair over the top, Sakuraba’s grip rumpling the styled locks out of alignment, but the other is pressing against the back of Takami’s neck, warm friction more than a weight to hold the other in place, and Takami shuts his eyes and hums incoherent appreciation of the contact.

Takami likes it best like this, with Sakuraba’s leg weighting against his shoulders and Sakuraba’s fingers in his hair; it’s easy to gauge the other’s reaction like this, easy to feel the tremors of sensation that ripple through the other’s body with each movement of his mouth. Takami can taste salt at the very back of his tongue, can feel the bitter flavor clinging to the head of Sakuraba’s cock coat the back of his throat, and it just draws him in closer, nearer, obeying the unstated suggestion of Sakuraba’s hands at his hair to press in until his nose touches the flushed-warm skin of Sakuraba’s hips and Takami’s breath is hissing against the obstruction of Sakuraba’s cock at his throat. He swallows convulsively, his thoughts humming into dizzy distraction as much from the thrum of pleasure he can feel under Sakuraba’s skin as from the too-much heat curling around him, and Sakuraba whimpers over him, his back arching with a surge of electricity as his cock twitches against Takami’s lips. Takami wants to look up, wants to blink his vision into clarity so he can see the part of Sakuraba’s lips, so he can watch the shudders of friction crest and break over the other’s expression; but he doesn’t want to pull away either, doesn’t want to extricate himself from the tangle he and Sakuraba have made of their bodies, so he stays where he is, keeps his eyes shut to focus instead on his other senses, on the quiver of Sakuraba’s body against his and the sound of the other’s gasping breathing and the bitter heat clinging to the back of his tongue.

Time comes undone in Takami’s awareness, his thoughts give way to distraction, until finally there’s just the heat and the friction, just Sakuraba panting variations on his name and fingers dragging into momentary fists of desperation as Takami sucks against the weight of the other’s cock in his mouth. Takami’s throat is working reflexively against the pressure with every forward motion he takes, his skin is prickling all over with the damp of sweat forming from everywhere he and Sakuraba touch, and Takami doesn’t want to move away, doesn’t think about moving away, doesn’t remember how to pull himself apart into a separate existence. There’s just Sakuraba, his hips rocking up in tiny, involuntary thrusts as his thighs flex and shudder under Takami’s touch, and then his back arches and his breathing stalls and all Takami’s body flushes to the heat of anticipation a moment before Sakuraba groans, and shudders, and comes in a sudden spill of heat over Takami’s tongue. Takami sighs satisfaction, the sound humming to inaudible vibration against Sakuraba’s skin, and Sakuraba jolts at the sensation, his whole body tensing for a moment before he falls back to languid weight across the sheets. Takami can still feel quivers of movement running through the other’s body, can track the tremors of aftershocks under the weight of his hands; it’s not until the last of them have faded that he draws back with slow care so he can work himself free of Sakuraba’s hold.

“God,” Sakuraba sighs at the ceiling, blinking up at the blank surface with the drowsy distraction he always has right after an orgasm. “That was amazing.”

Takami smiles, even though Sakuraba isn’t looking at him, and disentangles an arm from under the other’s body so he can straighten his glasses on his nose. “You say that every time, Haruto.”

“Oh,” Sakuraba says. “Do I?”

Takami can’t keep himself from laughing any more than he can stand to stay where he is. He shifts forward to slide up the bed so he can lean in over Sakuraba and smile down at him.

“Yes,” he tells him, smiling so wide any judgment on the word is gone before he speaks. “You do.”

Sakuraba blinks up at him before he smiles slow and warm and hazy. “It’s true every time,” he says, reaching up to work his fingers back into Takami’s hair. Takami ducks his head to the friction, his exhale coming out as a low groan as Sakuraba’s touch drags across his scalp, and Sakuraba’s smile goes wider. “You’re just that good.”

“Mm,” Takami allows. “So are you.”

Sakuraba hums. “I dunno,” he says. When he shifts it’s to reach for Takami’s hip and drag his fingers gently over the other’s bare skin. “I think I could do with some more practice.”

“Hm.” Takami lets himself tip sideways as Sakuraba’s hold pushes at his hip to urge him over onto the bed. “I suppose I could help you with that.”

“I really appreciate it, Takami-san,” Sakuraba purrs, the gratitude in his voice only a very little bit undermined by the laughter Takami can see bright in the corner of his eyes as he fits himself between Takami’s knees. “I just hope I can become the partner you deserve.”

Takami laughs, but it’s soft in his throat, as much affection as amusement. “You are,” he says. His fingers fit into Sakuraba’s hair and drag gentle over the golden strands; Sakuraba shuts his eyes and ducks into the touch, his expression going soft with appreciation. Takami lets his fingers slide through Sakuraba’s hair and over the back of his neck, slipping down to press his touch against the top edge of the pattern printed into the other’s shoulders. “You’re the perfect partner for me.” Sakuraba smiles and dips his head forward to kiss agreement against the dip of Takami’s hip, just under the line of his waist, and Takami lets his breathing shudder into the beginnings of arousal, lets his fingers spread wide over the blossoms against Sakuraba’s shoulders to brace himself against the heat unfolding out into his veins like sunlight.

Springtime lasts forever with Sakuraba.


End file.
